"Had my amorous kinsman much longer staid,
The perfume would have seal'd his obit;
For he had a nicer nose than the wench,
Who cared not a pin for the smother and stench,
In the arms of the Son of Tobit."
XXI
"I have read it," quoth she, "in Apocryphal Writ"—
And the Devil stoop'd down, and kiss'd her;
Not Jove himself, when he courted in flame,
On Semele's lips, the love-scorch'd Dame,
Impress'd such a burning blister.
XXII
The fire through her bones and her vitals shot—
"O, I yield, my winsome marrow—
I am thine for life"—and black thunders roll'd—
And she sank in his arms through the garden mould,
With the speed of a red-hot arrow.
XXIII
Merrily, merrily, ring the bells
From each Pandemonian steeple;
For the Devil hath gotten his beautiful Bride,
And a Wedding Dinner he will provide,
To feast all kinds of people.
XXIV
Fat bulls of Basan are roasted whole,
Of the breed that ran at David;
With the flesh of goats, on the sinister side,
That shall stand apart, when the world is tried;
Fit meat for souls unsaved!
XXV
The fowl from the spit were the Harpies' brood,
Which the bard sang near Cremona,
With a garnish of bats in their leathern wings imp't;
And the fish was—two delicate slices crimp't,
Of the whale that swallow'd Jonah.
XXVI
Then the goblets were crown'd, and a health went round
To the Bride, in a wine like scarlet;
No earthly vintage so deeply paints,
For 'twas dash'd with a tinge from the blood of the Saints
By the Babylonian Harlot.
XXVII
No Hebe fair stood Cup Bearer there,
The guests were their own skinkers;
But Bishop Judas first blest the can,
Who is of all Hell Metropolitan,
And kiss'd it to all the drinkers.
XXVIII
The feast being ended, to dancing they went,
To a music that did produce a
Most dissonant sound, while a hellish glee
Was sung in parts by the Furies Three;
And the Devil took out Medusa.
XXIX
But the best of the sport was to hear his old Dam,
Set up her shrill forlorn pipe—
How the wither'd Beldam hobbled about,
And put the rest of the company out—
For she needs must try a horn-pipe.
XXX
But the heat, and the press, and the noise, and the din,
Were so great, that, howe'er unwilling,
Our Reporter no longer was able to stay,
But came in his own defence away,
And left the Bride quadrilling.
PROLOGUES AND EPILOGUES
EPILOGUE TO GODWIN'S TRAGEDY OF "ANTONIO"
(1800)
Ladies, ye've seen how Guzman's consort died,
Poor victim of a Spaniard brother's pride,
When Spanish honour through the world was blown,
And Spanish beauty for the best was known[19].
In that romantic, unenlighten'd time,
A breach of promise[20] was a sort of crime—
Which of you handsome English ladies here,
But deem the penance bloody and severe?
A whimsical old Saragossa[21] fashion,
That a dead father's dying inclination,
Should live to thwart a living daughter's passion[22],
Unjustly on the sex we[23] men exclaim,
Rail at your[24] vices,—and commit the same;—
Man is a promise-breaker from the womb,
And goes a promise-breaker to the tomb—
What need we instance here the lover's vow,
The sick man's purpose, or the great man's bow[25]?
The truth by few examples best is shown—
Instead of many which are better known,
Take poor Jack Incident, that's dead and gone.
Jack, of dramatic genius justly vain,
Purchased a renter's share at Drury-lane;
A prudent man in every other matter,
Known at his club-room for an honest hatter;
Humane and courteous, led a civil life,
And has been seldom known to beat his wife;
But Jack is now grown quite another man,
Frequents the green-room, knows the plot and plan
Of each new piece,
And has been seen to talk with Sheridan!
In at the play-house just at six he pops,
And never quits it till the curtain drops,
Is never absent on the author's night,
Knows actresses and actors too—by sight;
So humble, that with Suett he'll confer,
Or take a pipe with plain Jack Bannister;
Nay, with an author has been known so free,
He once suggested a catastrophe—
In short, John dabbled till his head was turn'd:
His wife remonstrated, his neighbours mourn'd,
His customers were dropping off apace,
And Jack's affairs began to wear a piteous face.
One night his wife began a curtain lecture;
'My dearest Johnny, husband, spouse, protector,
Take pity on your helpless babes and me,
Save us from ruin, you from bankruptcy—
Look to your business, leave these cursed plays,
And try again your old industrious ways.'
Jack, who was always scared at the Gazette,
And had some bits of scull uninjured yet,
Promised amendment, vow'd his wife spake reason,
'He would not see another play that season—'
Three stubborn fortnights Jack his promise kept,
Was late and early in his shop, eat, slept,
And walk'd and talk'd, like ordinary men;
No wit, but John the hatter once again—
Visits his club: when lo! one fatal night
His wife with horror view'd the well-known sight—
John's hat, wig, snuff-box—well she knew his tricks—
And Jack decamping at the hour of six.
Just at the counter's edge a playbill lay,
Announcing that 'Pizarro' was the play—
'O Johnny, Johnny, this is your old doing.'
Quoth Jack, 'Why what the devil storm's a-brewing?
About a harmless play why all this fright?
I'll go and see it, if it's but for spite—
Zounds, woman! Nelson's[26] to be there to-night.'
[Footnote 19: Four easy lines.]
[Footnote 20: For which the heroine died.]
[Footnote 21: In Spain!!]
[Footnote 22: Two neat lines.]
[Footnote 23: Or you.]
[Footnote 24: Or our, as they have altered it.]
[Footnote 25: Antithesis!!]
[Footnote 26: "A good clap-trap. Nelson has exhibited two or three times at both theatres—and advertised himself."]
PROLOGUE TO GODWIN'S TRAGEDY OF "FAULKENER"
(1807)
An author who has given you all delight,
Furnish'd the tale our stage presents to-night.
Some of our earliest tears He taught to steal
Down our young cheeks, and forc'd us first to feel.
To solitary shores whole years confin'd,
Who has not read how pensive Crusoe pin'd?
Who, now grown old, that did not once admire
His goat, his parrot, his uncouth attire,
The stick, due-notch'd, that told each tedious day
That in the lonely island wore away?
Who has not shudder'd, where he stands aghast
At sight of human footsteps in the waste?
Or joy'd not, when his trembling hands unbind
Thee, Friday, gentlest of the savage kind?
The genius who conceiv'd that magic tale
Was skill'd by native pathos to prevail.
His stories, though rough-drawn, and fram'd in haste,
Had that which pleas'd our homely grandsires' taste.
His was a various pen, that freely rov'd
Into all subjects, was in most approv'd.
Whate'er the theme, his ready Muse obey'd—
Love, courtship, politics, religion, trade—
Gifted alike to shine in every sphere,
Nov'list, historian, poet, pamphleteer.
In some blest interval of party-strife,
He drew a striking sketch from private life,
Whose moving scenes of intricate distress
We try to-night in a dramatic dress:
A real story of domestic woe,
That asks no aid from music, verse, or show,
But trusts to truth, to nature, and Defoe.
EPILOGUE TO HENRY SIDDONS' FARCE, "TIME'S A TELL-TALE"
(1807)
Bound for the port of matrimonial bliss,
Ere I hoist sail, I hold it not amiss,
(Since prosp'rous ends ask prudent introductions)
To take a slight peep at my written instructions.
There's nothing like determining in time
All questions marital or maritime.
In all seas, straits, gulphs, ports, havens, lands, creeks.
Oh! Here it begins.
"Season, spring, wind standing at point Desire—
The good ship Matrimony—Commander. Blanford, Esq.
Art. I.
"The captain that has the command of her,
Or in his absence, the acting officer,
To see her planks are sound, her timbers tight."—
That acting officer I don't relish quite,
No, as I hope to tack another verse on,
I'll do those duties in my proper person.
Art. II.
"All mutinies to be suppress'd at first."
That's a good caution to prevent the worst.
Art. III.
"That she be properly victual'd, mann'd and stor'd,
To see no foreigners are got aboard."
That's rather difficult. Do what we can,
A vessel sometimes may mistake her man.
The safest way in such a parlous doubt,
Is steady watch and keep a sharp look out.
Art. IV.
"Whereas their Lords Commissioners (the church)
Do strictly authorise the right of search:
As always practis'd—you're to understand
By these what articles are contraband;
Guns, mortars, pistols, halberts, swords, pikes, lances,
Ball, powder, shot, and the appurtenances.
Videlicet—whatever can be sent
To give the enemy encouragement.
Ogles are small shot (so the instruction runs),
Touches hand grenades, and squeezes rifle guns."
Art. V.
"That no free-bottom'd neutral waiting maid
Presume to exercise the carrying trade:
The prohibition here contained extends
To all commerce cover'd by the name of Friends.
Heaven speed the good ship well"—and so it ends.
Oh with such wholesome jealousies as these
May Albion cherish his old spouse the seas;
Keep over her a husband's firm command,
Not with too rigid nor too lax a hand.
Be gently patient to her swells and throws
When big with safeties to himself she goes;
Nor while she clips him in a fast embrace,
Stand for some female frowns upon her face.
But tell the rival world—and tell in Thunder,
Whom Nature joined, none ere shall put asunder.
PROLOGUE TO COLERIDGE'S TRAGEDY OF "REMORSE"
(1813)
There are, I am told, who sharply criticise
Our modern theatres' unwieldy size.
We players shall scarce plead guilty to that charge,
Who think a house can never be too large:
Griev'd when a rant, that's worth a nation's ear,
Shakes some prescrib'd Lyceum's petty sphere;
And pleased to mark the grin from space to space
Spread epidemic o'er a town's broad face.—
O might old Betterton or Booth return
To view our structures from their silent urn,
Could Quin come stalking from Elysian glades,
Or Garrick get a day-rule from the shades—
Where now, perhaps, in mirth which Spirits approve,
He imitates the ways of men above,
And apes the actions of our upper coast,
As in his days of flesh he play'd the ghost:—
How might they bless our ampler scope to please,
And hate their own old shrunk up audiences.—
Their houses yet were palaces to those,
Which Ben and Fletcher for their triumphs chose.
Shakspeare, who wish'd a kingdom for a stage, }
Like giant pent in disproportion'd cage, }
Mourn'd his contracted strengths and crippled rage. }
He who could tame his vast ambition down
To please some scatter'd gleanings of a town,
And, if some hundred auditors supplied
Their meagre meed of claps, was satisfied,
How had he felt, when that dread curse of Lear's
Had burst tremendous on a thousand ears,
While deep-struck wonder from applauding bands
Return'd the tribute of as many hands!
Rude were his guests; he never made his bow
To such an audience as salutes us now.
He lack'd the balm of labor, female praise.
Few Ladies in his time frequented plays,
Or came to see a youth with aukward art
And shrill sharp pipe burlesque the woman's part.
The very use, since so essential grown,
Of painted scenes, was to his stage unknown.
The air-blest castle, round whose wholesome crest,
The martlet, guest of summer, chose her nest—
The forest walks of Arden's fair domain,
Where Jaques fed his solitary vein.
No pencil's aid as yet had dared supply,
Seen only by the intellectual eye.
Those scenic helps, denied to Shakspeare's page,
Our Author owes to a more liberal age.
Nor pomp nor circumstance are wanting here;
'Tis for himself alone that he must fear.
Yet shall remembrance cherish the just pride,
That (be the laurel granted or denied)
He first essay'd in this distinguish'd fane,
Severer muses and a tragic strain.
EPILOGUE TO KENNEY'S FARCE, "DEBTOR AND CREDITOR"
(1814)
Spoken by Mr. Liston and Mr. Emery in character
Gosling. False world——
Sampson. You're bit, Sir.
Gosling. Boor! what's that to you?
With Love's soft sorrows what hast thou to do?
'Tis here for consolation I must look.
(Takes out his pocket book).
Sampson. Nay, Sir, don't put us down in your black book.
Gosling. All Helicon is here.
Sampson. All Hell.
Gosling. You Clod! Did'st never hear of the Pierian God, And the Nine Virgins on the Sacred Hill?
Sampson. Nine Virgins!—Sure!
Gosling. I have them all at will.
Sampson. If Miss fight shy, then—
Gosling. And my suit decline.
Sampson. You'll make a dash at them.
Gosling. I'll tip all nine.
Sampson. What, wed 'em, Sir?
Gosling. O, no—that thought I banish. I woo—not wed; they never bring the Spanish. Their favours I pursue, and court the bays.
Sampson. Mayhap, you're one of them that write the plays?
Gosling. Bumpkin!
Sampson. I'm told the public's well-nigh crammed With such like stuff.
Gosling. The public may be damned.
Sampson. They ha'nt damned you? (inquisitively).
Gosling. This fellow's wond'rous shrewd! I'd tell him if I thought he'd not be rude. Once in my greener years, I wrote a piece.
Sampson. Aye, so did I—at school like—
Gosling. Booby, cease! I mean a Play.
Sampson. Oh!
Gosling. And to crown my joys, 'Twas acted—
Sampson. Well, and how—
Gosling. It made a noise, A kind of mingled—(as if musing).
Sampson. Aye, describe it, try.
Gosling. Like—Were you ever in the pillory?
Sampson. No, Sir, I thank ye, no such kind of game.
Gosling. Bate but the eggs, and it was much the same. Shouts, clamours, laughs, and a peculiar sound, 'Like, like—
Sampson. Like geese, I warrant, in a pound.
I like this mainly!
Gosling. Some began to cough,
Some cried—
Sampson. Go on—
Gosling. A few—and some—"Go off!"
I can't suppress it. Gods! I hear it now;
It was in fact a most confounded row.
Dire was the din, as when some storm confounds
Earth, sea, and sky, with all terrific sounds.
Not hungry lions sent forth notes more strange,
Not bulls and bears, that have been hoaxed on 'Change.
Sampson. Exeter 'Change you mean—I've seen they bears.
Gosling. The beasts I mean are far less tame than theirs.
Change Alley Bruins, nattier though their dress,
Might at Polito's study politesse.
Brief let me be. My gentle Sampson, pray,
Fight Larry Whack, but never write a play.
Sampson. I won't, Sir: and these christian souls petition,
To spare all wretched folks in such condition.
EPILOGUE TO AN AMATEUR PERFORMANCE OF "RICHARD II."
(1824)
Of all that act, the hardest task is theirs,
Who, bred no Players, play at being Players;
Copy the shrug—in Kemble once approved;—
Mere mimics' mimics—nature twice removed.
Shades of a shadow! who but must have seen
The stage-struck hero, in some swelling scene
Aspiring to be Lear—stumble on Kean?
The admired actor's faults our steps betray,—
No less his very beauties lead astray!
In "sad civility" once Garrick sate
To see a Play, mangled in form and state;
Plebeian Shakspeare must the words supply,—
The actors all were Fools—of Quality.
The scenes—the dresses—were above rebuke;—
Scarce a Performer there below a Duke.
He sate, and mused how in his Shakspeare's mind
The idea of old Nobility enshrined
Should thence a grace and a refinement have
Which passed these living Nobles to conceive,—
Who with such apish, base gesticulation,
Remnants of starts, and dregs of playhouse passion,
So foul belied their great forefathers' fashion!
He saw—and true Nobility confessed
Less in the high-born blood, than lowly poet's breast.
If Lords enacting Lords sometimes may fail,
What gentle plea, Spectators, can avail
For wight of low degree who dares to stir
The long-raked ashes of old Lancaster,
And on his nothing-martial front to set
Of warlike Gaunt the lofty burgonet?
For who shall that Plantagenet display,
Majestical in sickness and decay?
Or paint the shower of passions fierce and thick
On Richard's head—that Royal Splenetic?
Your pardon, not your plaudits, then we claim
If we've come short, where Garrick had been tame!
PROLOGUE TO SHERIDAN KNOWLES' COMEDY, "THE WIFE"
(1833)
Untoward fate no luckless wight invades
More sorely than the Man who drives two trades;
Like Esop's bat, between two natures placed,
Scowl'd at by mice, among the birds disgraced.
Our author thus, of two-fold fame exactor,
Is doubly scouted,—both as Bard, and Actor!
Wanting in haste a Prologue, he applied
To three poetic friends; was thrice denied.
Each glared on him with supercilious glance,
As on a Poor Relation met by chance;
And one was heard, with more repulsive air,
To mutter "Vagabond," "Rogue," "Strolling Player!"
A poet once, he found—and look'd aghast—
By turning actor, he had lost his caste.
The verse patch'd up at length—with like ill fortune
His friends behind the scenes he did importune
To speak his lines. He found them all fight shy,
Nodding their heads in cool civility.
"There service in the Drama was enough,
The poet might recite the poet's stuff!"
The rogues—they like him hugely—but it stung 'em,
Somehow—to think a Bard had got among 'em.
Their mind made up—no earthly pleading shook it,
In pure compassion 'till I undertook it.
Disown'd by Poets, and by Actors too,
Dear Patrons of both arts, he turns to you!
If in your hearts some tender feelings dwell
From sweet Virginia, or heroic Tell:
If in the scenes which follow you can trace
What once has pleased you—an unbidden grace—
A touch of nature's work—an awkward start
Or ebullition of an Irish heart—
Cry, clap, commend it! If you like them not,
Your former favours cannot be forgot.
Condemn them—damn them—hiss them, if you will—
Their author is your grateful servant still!
EPILOGUE TO SHERIDAN KNOWLES' COMEDY, "THE WIFE"
(1833)
When first our Bard his simple will express'd,
That I should in his Heroine's robes be dress'd,
My fears were with my vanity at strife,
How I could act that untried part—a "Wife."
But Fancy to the Grison hills me drew,
Where Mariana like a wild flower grew,
Nursing her garden-kindred: so far I
Liked her condition, willing to comply
With that sweet single life: when, with a cranch,
Down came that thundering, crashing avalanche,
Startling my mountain-project! "Take this spade,"
Said Fancy then; "dig low, adventurous Maid,
For hidden wealth." I did: and, Ladies, lo! }
Was e'er romantic female's fortune so, }
To dig a life-warm lover from the—snow? }
A Wife and Princess see me next, beset
With subtle toils, in an Italian net;
While knavish Courtiers, stung with rage or fear,
Distill'd lip-poison in a husband's ear.
I ponder'd on the boiling Southern vein;
Racks, cords, stilettos, rush'd upon my brain!
By poor, good, weak Antonio, too disowned—
I dream'd each night, I should be Desdemona'd:
And, being in Mantua, thought upon the shop,
Whence fair Verona's youth his breath did stop:
And what if Leonardo, in foul scorn,
Some lean Apothecary should suborn
To take my hated life? A "tortoise" hung
Before my eyes, and in my ears scaled "alligators" rung.
But my Othello, to his vows more zealous—
Twenty Iagos could not make him jealous!
New raised to reputation, and to life— }
At your commands behold me, without strife, }
Well-pleased, and ready to repeat—"The Wife." }
* * * * *
JOHN WOODVIL
A TRAGEDY
(1798-1802. Text of 1818)
* * * * *
CHARACTERS
SIR WALTER WOODVIL.
JOHN. }
SIMON. } his sons.
LOVEL. }
GRAY. } Pretended friends of John.
SANDFORD. Sir Walter's old steward.
MARGARET. Orphan ward of Sir Walter.
FOUR GENTLEMEN. John's riotous companions.
SERVANTS.
SCENE—for the most part at Sir Walter's mansion in DEVONSHIRE; at other times in the forest of SHERWOOD.
TIME—soon after the RESTORATION.
* * * * *
ACT THE FIRST
SCENE.—A Servants' Apartment in Woodvil Hall.
Servants drinking—Time, the morning.
* * * * *
A Song by DANIEL
"When the King enjoys his own again."
PETER
A delicate song. Where did'st learn it, fellow?
DANIEL Even there, where thou learnest thy oaths and thy politics—at our master's table.—Where else should a serving-man pick up his poor accomplishments?
MARTIN Well spoken, Daniel. O rare Daniel!—his oaths and his politics! excellent!
FRANCIS
And where did'st pick up thy knavery, Daniel?
PETER
That came to him by inheritance. His family have supplied the shire of
Devon, time out of mind, with good thieves and bad serving-men. All of
his race have come into the world without their conscience.
MARTIN
Good thieves, and bad serving-men! Better and better. I marvel what
Daniel hath got to say in reply.
DANIEL I marvel more when thou wilt say any thing to the purpose, thou shallow serving-man, whose swiftest conceit carries thee no higher than to apprehend with difficulty the stale jests of us thy compeers. When was't ever known to club thy own particular jest among us?
MARTIN
Most unkind Daniel, to speak such biting things of me!
FRANCIS See—if he hath not brought tears into the poor fellow's eyes with the saltness of his rebuke.
DANIEL No offence, brother Martin—I meant none. 'Tis true, Heaven gives gifts, and with-holds them. It has been pleased to bestow upon me a nimble invention to the manufacture of a jest; and upon thee, Martin, an indifferent bad capacity to understand my meaning.
MARTIN
Is that all? I am content. Here's my hand.
FRANCIS Well, I like a little innocent mirth myself, but never could endure bawdry.
DANIEL Quot homines tot sententiae.
MARTIN
And what is that?
DANIEL
'Tis Greek, and argues difference of opinion.
MARTIN
I hope there is none between us.
DANIEL
Here's to thee, brother Martin. (Drinks.)
MARTIN
And to thee, Daniel. (Drinks.)
FRANCIS
And to thee, Peter. (Drinks.)
PETER
Thank you, Francis. And here's to thee. (Drinks.)
MARTIN
I shall be fuddled anon.
DANIEL
And drunkenness I hold to be a very despicable vice.
ALL
O! a shocking vice. (They drink round.)
PETER
In as much as it taketh away the understanding.
DANIEL
And makes the eyes red.
PETER
And the tongue to stammer.
DANIEL
And to blab out secrets.
(During this conversation they continue drinking.)
PETER
Some men do not know an enemy from a friend when they are drunk.
DANIEL
Certainly sobriety is the health of the soul.
MARTIN
Now I know I am going to be drunk.
DANIEL
How can'st tell, dry-bones?
MARTIN
Because I begin to be melancholy. That's always a sign.
FRANCIS
Take care of Martin, he'll topple off his seat else.
(Martin drops asleep.)
PETER Times are greatly altered, since young master took upon himself the government of this household.
ALL
Greatly altered.
FRANCIS I think every thing be altered for the better since His Majesty's blessed restoration.
PETER In Sir Walter's days there was no encouragement given to good house-keeping.
ALL
None.
DANIEL
For instance, no possibility of getting drunk before two in the afternoon.
PETER
Every man his allowance of ale at breakfast—his quart!
ALL
A quart!! (in derision.)
DANIEL
Nothing left to our own sweet discretions.
PETER Whereby it may appear, we were treated more like beasts than what we were—discreet and reasonable serving-men.
ALL
Like beasts.
MARTIN (Opening his eyes.) Like beasts.
DANIEL
To sleep, wag-tail!
FRANCIS I marvel all this while where the old gentleman has found means to secrete himself. It seems no man has heard of him since the day of the King's return. Can any tell why our young master, being favoured by the court, should not have interest to procure his father's pardon?
DANIEL Marry, I think 'tis the obstinacy of the old Knight, that will not be beholden to the court for his safety.
MARTIN
Now that is wilful.
FRANCIS
But can any tell me the place of his concealment?
PETER
That cannot I; but I have my conjectures.
DANIEL
Two hundred pounds, as I hear, to the man that shall apprehend him.
FRANCIS
Well, I have my suspicions.
PETER
And so have I.
MARTIN
And I can keep a secret.
FRANCIS (To Peter.) Warwickshire you mean. (Aside.)
PETER
Perhaps not.
FRANCIS
Nearer perhaps.
PETER
I say nothing.
DANIEL
I hope there is none in this company would be mean enough to betray him.
ALL
O Lord, surely not. (They drink to Sir Walter's safety.)
FRANCIS I have often wondered how our master came to be excepted by name in the late Act of Oblivion.
DANIEL
Shall I tell the reason?
ALL
Aye, do.
DANIEL
'Tis thought he is no great friend to the present happy establishment.
ALL
O! monstrous!
PETER Fellow servants, a thought strikes me.—Do we, or do we not, come under the penalties of the treason-act, by reason of our being privy to this man's concealment.
ALL
Truly a sad consideration.
To them enters Sandford suddenly.
SANDFORD
You well-fed and unprofitable grooms,
Maintained for state, not use;
You lazy feasters at another's cost,
That eat like maggots into an estate,
And do as little work,
Being indeed but foul excrescences,
And no just parts in a well-order'd family;
You base and rascal imitators,
Who act up to the height your master's vices,
But cannot read his virtues in your bond:
Which of you, as I enter'd, spake of betraying?
Was it you, or you, or, thin-face, was it you?
MARTIN
Whom does he call thin-face?
SANDFORD
No prating, loon, but tell me who he was,
That I may brain the villain with my staff,
That seeks Sir Walter's life?
You miserable men,
With minds more slavish than your slave's estate,
Have you that noble bounty so forgot,
Which took you from the looms, and from the ploughs,
Which better had ye follow'd, fed ye, cloth'd ye,
And entertain'd ye in a worthy service,
Where your best wages was the world's repute,
That thus ye seek his life, by whom ye live?
Have you forgot too,
How often in old times
Your drunken mirths have stunn'd day's sober ears,
Carousing full cups to Sir Walter's health?—
Whom now ye would betray, but that he lies
Out of the reach of your poor treacheries.
This learn from me,
Our master's secret sleeps with trustier tongues,
Than will unlock themselves to carls like you.
Go, get you gone, you knaves. Who stirs? this staff
Shall teach you better manners else.
ALL
Well, we are going.
SANDFORD
And quickly too, ye had better, for I see
Young mistress Margaret coming this way.
(Exeunt all but Sandford.)
Enter Margaret, as in a fright, pursued by a Gentleman,
who, seeing Sandford, retires muttering a curse.
Sandford, Margaret.
SANDFORD
Good-morrow to my fair mistress. 'Twas a chance
I saw you, lady, so intent was I
On chiding hence these graceless serving-men,
Who cannot break their fast at morning meals
Without debauch and mis-timed riotings.
This house hath been a scene of nothing else
But atheist riot and profane excess,
Since my old master quitted all his rights here.
MARGARET
Each day I endure fresh insult from the scorn
Of Woodvil's friends, the uncivil jests,
And free discourses, of the dissolute men,
That haunt this mansion, making me their mirth.
SANDFORD
Does my young master know of these affronts?
MARGARET
I cannot tell. Perhaps he has not been told.
Perhaps he might have seen them if he would.
I have known him more quick-sighted. Let that pass.
All things seem chang'd, I think. I had a friend,
(I can't but weep to think him alter'd too,)
These things are best forgotten; but I knew
A man, a young man, young, and full of honor,
That would have pick'd a quarrel for a straw,
And fought it out to the extremity,
E'en with the dearest friend he had alive,
On but a bare surmise, a possibility,
That Margaret had suffer'd an affront.
Some are too tame, that were too splenetic once.
SANDFORD
'Twere best he should be told of these affronts.
MARGARET
I am the daughter of his father's friend,
Sir Walter's orphan-ward.
I am not his servant maid, that I should wait
The opportunity of a gracious hearing,
Enquire the times and seasons when to put
My peevish prayer up at young Woodvil's feet,
And sue to him for slow redress, who was
Himself a suitor late to Margaret.
I am somewhat proud: and Woodvil taught me pride.
I was his favourite once, his playfellow in infancy,
And joyful mistress of his youth.
None once so pleasant in his eyes as Margaret.
His conscience, his religion, Margaret was,
His dear heart's confessor, a heart within that heart,
And all dear things summ'd up in her alone.
As Margaret smil'd or frown'd John liv'd or died:
His dress, speech, gesture, studies, friendships, all
Being fashion'd to her liking.
His flatteries taught me first this self-esteem,
His flatteries and caresses, while he loved.
The world esteem'd her happy, who had won
His heart, who won all hearts;
And ladies envied me the love of Woodvil.
SANDFORD
He doth affect the courtier's life too much,
Whose art is to forget,
And that has wrought this seeming change in him,
That was by nature noble.
'Tis these court-plagues, that swarm about our house,
Have done the mischief, making his fancy giddy
With images of state, preferment, place,
Tainting his generous spirits with ambition.
MARGARET
I know not how it is;
A cold protector is John grown to me.
The mistress, and presumptive wife, of Woodvil
Can never stoop so low to supplicate
A man, her equal, to redress those wrongs,
Which he was bound first to prevent;
But which his own neglects have sanction'd rather,
Both sanction'd and provok'd: a mark'd neglect,
And strangeness fast'ning bitter on his love,
His love which long has been upon the wane.
For me, I am determined what to do:
To leave this house this night, and lukewarm John,
And trust for food to the earth and Providence.
SANDFORD
O lady, have a care
Of these indefinite and spleen-bred resolves.
You know not half the dangers that attend
Upon a life of wand'ring, which your thoughts now,
Feeling the swellings of a lofty anger,
To your abused fancy, as 'tis likely,
Portray without its terrors, painting lies
And representments of fallacious liberty—
You know not what it is to leave the roof that shelters you.
MARGARET
I have thought on every possible event,
The dangers and discouragements you speak of,
Even till my woman's heart hath ceas'd to fear them,
And cowardice grows enamour'd of rare accidents.
Nor am I so unfurnish'd, as you think,
Of practicable schemes.
SANDFORD
Now God forbid; think twice of this, dear lady.
MARGARET
I pray you spare me, Mr. Sandford,
And once for all believe, nothing can shake my purpose.
SANDFORD
But what course have you thought on?
MARGARET
To seek Sir Walter in the forest of Sherwood.
I have letters from young Simon,
Acquainting me with all the circumstances
Of their concealment, place, and manner of life,
And the merry hours they spend in the green haunts
Of Sherwood, nigh which place they have ta'en a house
In the town of Nottingham, and pass for foreigners,
Wearing the dress of Frenchmen.—
All which I have perus'd with so attent
And child-like longings, that to my doting ears
Two sounds now seem like one,
One meaning in two words, Sherwood and Liberty.
And, gentle Mr. Sandford,
'Tis you that must provide now
The means of my departure, which for safety
Must be in boy's apparel.
SANDFORD
Since you will have it so
(My careful age trembles at all may happen)
I will engage to furnish you.
I have the keys of the wardrobe, and can fit you
With garments to your size.
I know a suit
Of lively Lincoln Green, that shall much grace you
In the wear, being glossy fresh, and worn but seldom.
Young Stephen Woodvil wore them, while he lived.
I have the keys of all this house and passages,
And ere day-break will rise and let you forth.
What things soe'er you have need of I can furnish you;
And will provide a horse and trusty guide,
To bear you on your way to Nottingham.
MARGARET
That once this day and night were fairly past!
For then I'll bid this house and love farewell;
Farewell, sweet Devon; farewell, lukewarm John;
For with the morning's light will Margaret be gone.
Thanks, courteous Mr. Sandford.—
(Exeunt divers ways.)
ACT THE SECOND
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 honorable 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."
Gone! gone! my girl? so hasty, Margaret!
And never a kiss at parting? shallow loves,
And likings of a ten days' growth, use courtesies,
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.—
I know them all.
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.
Love shall have part, but Love shall not have all.
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.
LOVEL
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 Christians' 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.
LOVEL 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.)
DRUNKEN MAN
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? can'st 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 Grimalkin prate."—At noon I drink for thirst, at night for fellowship, but, above all, I love to usher in the bashful morning under the auspices of a freshening stoop of liquor. (Sings) "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 Gentlemen, 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._)
Harry Freeman, Harry Freeman.
He is not here. Let us go look for him.
Where is Freeman?
Where is Harry?
(Exeunt the Three, calling for Freeman.)
WOODVIL Did you ever see such gentry? (laughing). These are they that fatten on ale and tobacco in a morning, drink burnt brandy at noon to promote digestion, and piously conclude with quart bumpers after supper, to prove their loyalty.
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 sculk:
The common-wealthsman, and state machinist,
The cropt fanatic, and fifth-monarchy-man,
Who heareth of these visionaries now?
They and their dreams have ended. Fools do sing,
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 something to be govern'd, not to govern,
A fishing, hawking, hunting, country gentleman?
(Exit.)
SCENE.—Sherwood Forest.
SIR WALTER WOODVIL. SIMON WOODVIL. (Disguised as Frenchmen.)
SIR WALTER
How fares my boy, Simon, my youngest born,
My hope, my pride, young Woodvil, speak to me?
Some grief untold weighs heavy at thy heart:
I know it by thy alter'd cheer of late.
Thinkest, thy brother plays thy father false?
It is a mad and thriftless prodigal,
Grown proud upon the favours of the court;
Court manners, and court fashions, he affects,
And in the heat and uncheck'd blood of youth,
Harbours a company of riotous men,
All hot, and young, court-seekers, like himself,
Most skilful to devour a patrimony;
And these have eat into my old estates,
And these have drain'd thy father's cellars dry;
But these so common faults of youth not named,
(Things which themselves outgrow, left to themselves,)
I know no quality that stains his honor.
My life upon his faith and noble mind,
Son John could never play thy father false.
SIMON
I never thought but nobly of my brother,
Touching his honor and fidelity.
Still I could wish him charier of his person,
And of his time more frugal, than to spend
In riotous living, graceless society,
And mirth unpalatable, hours better employ'd
(With those persuasive graces nature lent him)
In fervent pleadings for a father's life.
SIR WALTER
I would not owe my life to a jealous court,
Whose shallow policy I know it is,
On some reluctant acts of prudent mercy,
(Not voluntary, but extorted by the times,
In the first tremblings of new-fixed power,
And recollection smarting from old wounds,)
On these to build a spurious popularity.
Unknowing what free grace or mercy mean,
They fear to punish, therefore do they pardon.
For this cause have I oft forbid my son,
By letters, overtures, open solicitings,
Or closet-tamperings, by gold or fee,
To beg or bargain with the court for my life.
SIMON
And John has ta'en you, father, at your word,
True to the letter of his paternal charge.
SIR WALTER
Well, my good cause, and my good conscience, boy,
Shall be for sons to me, if John prove false.
Men die but once, and the opportunity
Of a noble death is not an every-day fortune:
It is a gift which noble spirits pray for.
SIMON
I would not wrong my brother by surmise;
I know him generous, full of gentle qualities,
Incapable of base compliances,
No prodigal in his nature, but affecting
This shew of bravery for ambitious ends.
He drinks, for 'tis the humour of the court,
And drink may one day wrest the secret from him,
And pluck you from your hiding place in the sequel.
SIR WALTER
Fair death shall be my doom, and foul life his.
Till when, we'll live as free in this green forest
As yonder deer, who roam unfearing treason:
Who seem the Aborigines of this place,
Or Sherwood theirs by tenure.
SIMON
'Tis said, that Robert Earl of Huntingdon,
Men call'd him Robin Hood, an outlaw bold,
With a merry crew of hunters here did haunt,
Not sparing the king's venison. May one believe
The antique tale?
SIR WALTER
There is much likelihood,
Such bandits did in England erst abound,
When polity was young. I have read of the pranks
Of that mad archer, and of the tax he levied
On travellers, whatever their degree,
Baron, or knight, whoever pass'd these woods,
Layman, or priest, not sparing the bishop's mitre
For spiritual regards; nay, once, 'tis said,
He robb'd the king himself.
SIMON
A perilous man. (Smiling.)
SIR WALTER
How quietly we live here,
Unread in the world's business,
And take no note of all its slippery changes.
'Twere best we make a world among ourselves,
A little world,
Without the ills and falsehoods of the greater:
We two being all the inhabitants of ours,
And kings and subjects both in one.
SIMON
Only the dangerous errors, fond conceits,
Which make the business of that greater world,
Must have no place in ours:
As, namely, riches, honors, birth, place, courtesy,
Good fame and bad, rumours and popular noises,
Books, creeds, opinions, prejudices national,
Humours particular,
Soul-killing lies, and truths that work small good,
Feuds, factions, enmities, relationships,
Loves, hatreds, sympathies, antipathies,
And all the intricate stuff quarrels are made of.
(Margaret enters in boy's apparel.)
SIR WALTER
What pretty boy have we here?
MARGARET
Bon jour, messieurs. Ye have handsome English faces,
I should have ta'en you else for other two,
I came to seek in the forest.
SIR WALTER
Who are they?
MARGARET
A gallant brace of Frenchmen, curled monsieurs,
That, men say, haunt these woods, affecting privacy,
More than the manner of their countrymen.
SIMON
We have here a wonder.
The face is Margaret's face.
SIR WALTER
The face is Margaret's, but the dress the same
My Stephen sometimes wore.
(To Margaret)
Suppose us them; whom do men say we are?
Or know you what you seek?
MARGARET
A worthy pair of exiles,
Two whom the politics of state revenge,
In final issue of long civil broils,
Have houseless driven from your native France,
To wander idle in these English woods,
Where now ye live; most part
Thinking on home, and all the joys of France,
Where grows the purple vine.
SIR WALTER
These woods, young stranger,
And grassy pastures, which the slim deer loves,
Are they less beauteous than the land of France,
Where grows the purple vine?
MARGARET
I cannot tell.
To an indifferent eye both shew alike.
'Tis not the scene,
But all familiar objects in the scene,
Which now ye miss, that constitute a difference.
Ye had a country, exiles, ye have none now;
Friends had ye, and much wealth, ye now have nothing;
Our manners, laws, our customs, all are foreign to you,
I know ye loathe them, cannot learn them readily;
And there is reason, exiles, ye should love
Our English earth less than your land of France,
Where grows the purple vine; where all delights grow,
Old custom has made pleasant.
SIR WALTER
You, that are read
So deeply in our story, what are you?
MARGARET
A bare adventurer; in brief a woman,
That put strange garments on, and came thus far
To seek an ancient friend:
And having spent her stock of idle words,
And feeling some tears coming,
Hastes now to clasp Sir Walter Woodvil's knees,
And beg a boon for Margaret, his poor ward. (Kneeling.)
SIR WALTER
Not at my feet, Margaret, not at my feet.
MARGARET
Yes, till her suit is answer'd.
SIR WALTER
Name it.
MARGARET
A little boon, and yet so great a grace,
She fears to ask it.
SIR WALTER
Some riddle, Margaret?
MARGARET
No riddle, but a plain request.
SIR WALTER
Name it.
MARGARET
Free liberty of Sherwood,
And leave to take her lot with you in the forest.
SIR WALTER
A scant petition, Margaret, but take it,
Seal'd with an old man's tears.—
Rise, daughter of Sir Rowland.
(Addresses them both.)
O you most worthy,
You constant followers of a man proscribed,
Following poor misery in the throat of danger;
Fast servitors to craz'd and penniless poverty,
Serving poor poverty without hope of gain;
Kind children of a sire unfortunate;
Green clinging tendrils round a trunk decay'd,
Which needs must bring on you timeless decay;
Fair living forms to a dead carcase join'd;—
What shall I say?
Better the dead were gather'd to the dead,
Than death and life in disproportion meet.—
Go, seek your fortunes, children.—