Part 10

+SCENE+, _A Dressing-Room_.

_Enter Lady ~Fancyfull~, ~Madamoiselle~, and ~Cornet~._

_Lady Fan._ How do I look this Morning?

_Cor._ Your Ladyship looks very ill, truly.

_Lady Fan._ Lard, how ill-natur'd thou art, _Cornet_, to tell me so, tho' the thing shou'd be true! Don't you know that I have Humility enough to be but too easily out of Conceit with myself? Hold the Glass; I dare swear that will have more Manners than you have. _Madamoiselle_, let me have your Opinion too.

_Madam._ My opinion pe, Matam, dat your Latyship never look so well in your Life.

_Lady Fan._ Well, the _French_ are the prettiest, obliging People; they say the most acceptable, well-manner'd things--and never flatter.

_Madam._ Your Latyship say great Justice inteed.

_Lady Fan._ Nay, every thing's just in my House but _Cornet_. The very Looking-Glass gives her the _Dementi_. But I'm almost afraid it flatters me, it makes me look so very engaging.

[_Looking affectedly in the Glass._

_Madam._ Inteed, Matam, your face pe handsomer den all de Looking-Glass in de World, _croyez moy_.

_Lady Fan._ But is it possible my Eyes can be so languishing--and so very full of Fire?

_Madam._ Matam, if de Glass was Burning-Glass, I believe your Eyes set de Fire in de House.

_Lady Fan._ You may take that Night-gown, _Madamoiselle_; get out of the Room, _Cornet_; I can't endure you. This Wench, methinks, does look so unsufferably ugly.

_Madam._ Every ting look ugly, Matam, dat stand by your Latyship.

_Lady Fan._ No really, _Madamoiselle_, methinks you look mighty pretty.

_Madam._ Ah Matam! de Moon have no Eclat ven de Sun appear.

_Lady Fan._ O pretty Expression! Have you ever been in Love, _Madamoiselle_?

Madam. _Ouy_, Matame.

[_Sighing._

_Lady Fan._ And were you belov'd again?

Madam. _Non_, Matame.

_Lady Fan._ O ye Gods! What an unfortunate Creature shou'd I be in such a Case! But Nature has made me nice, for my own Defence: I'm nice, strangely nice, _Madamoiselle_; I believe were the Merit of whole Mankind bestow'd upon one single Person, I shou'd still think the Fellow wanted something to make it worth my while to take notice of him; and yet I could love; nay, fondly love, were it possible to have a thing made on purpose for me: For I'm not cruel, _Madamoiselle_; I'm only nice.

_Madam._ Ah Matam, I wish I was fine Gentleman for your sake. I do all de ting in de World to get leetel way into your Heart. I make Song, I make Verse, I give you de Serenade, I give great many Present to _Madamoiselle_; I no eat, I no sleep, I be lean, I be mad, I hang myself, I drown myself. _Ah ma chere Dame, que je vous aimerois!_

[_Embracing her._

_Lady Fan._ Well, the _French_ have strange obliging ways with 'em; you may take those two pair of Gloves, _Madamoiselle_.

_Madam._ Me humbly tanke my sweet Lady.

_Enter ~Cornet~._

_Cor._ Madam, here's a Letter for your Ladyship by the Penny Post.

_Lady Fan._ Some new Conquest, I'll warrant you. For without Vanity, I look'd extremely clear last Night when I went to the Park.--O agreeable! Here's a new Song made of me: And ready set too. O thou welcome thing! [_Kissing it._] Call _Pipe_ hither, she shall sing it instantly.

_Enter ~Pipe~._

Here, sing me this new Song, _Pipe_.

SONG.

I.

_Fly, fly, you happy Shepherds, fly; Avoid ~Philira~'s Charms; The Rigour of her Heart denies The Heaven that's in her Arms. Ne'er hope to gaze, and then retire, Nor yielding, to be blest; Nature, who form'd her Eyes of Fire, Of Ice compos'd her Breast._

II.

_Yet, lovely Maid, this once believe A Slave whose Zeal you move; The Gods, alas! your Youth deceive, Their Heav'n consists in Love. In spite of all the Thanks you owe, You may reproach 'em this; That where they did their Form bestow, They have deny'd their Bliss._

_Lady Fan._ Well, there may be Faults, _Madamoiselle_, but the Design is so very obliging, 'twou'd be a matchless Ingratitude in me to discover 'em.

Madam. _Ma foy, Madame_, I tink de Gentleman's Song tell you de Trute. If you never love, you never be happy--Ah--_que l'aime l'amour moy_!

_Enter Servant with another Letter._

_Ser._ Madam, here's another Letter for your Ladyship.

_Lady Fan._ 'Tis this way I am importun'd every Morning, _Madamoiselle_. Pray how do the _French_ Ladies when they are thus _accablées_?

_Madam._ Matam, dey never complain. _Au contraire_, when one _Frense_ Laty have got hundred Lover--den she do all she can--to get a hundred more.

_Lady Fan._ Well, strike me dead, I think they have _le Gout bon_. For 'tis an unutterable Pleasure to be ador'd by all the Men, and envy'd by all the Women----Yet I'll swear I'm concern'd at the Torture I give 'em. Lard, why was I form'd to make the whole Creation uneasy! But let me read my Letter. [_Reads._]

"If you have a mind to hear of your Faults, instead of being prais'd for your Virtues, take the pains to walk in the Green-walk in St. _James_'s with your Woman an Hour hence. You'll there meet one, who hates you for some things, as he cou'd love you for others, and therefore is willing to endeavour your Reformation.----If you come to the Place I mention, you'll know who I am: If you don't, you never shall: so take your Choice."

This is strangely familiar, _Madamoiselle_; now have I a provoking Fancy to know who this impudent Fellow is.

_Madam._ Den take your Scarf and your Mask, and go to de Rendezvous. De _Frense_ Laty do _justement comme ça_.

_Lady Fan._ Rendezvous! What, rendezvous with a Man, _Madamoiselle_!

Madam. _Eh, pourquoy non?_

_Lady Fan._ What, and a Man perhaps I never saw in my Life?

Madam. _Tant mieux: c'est donc quelque chose de nouveau._

_Lady Fan._ Why, how do I know what Designs he may have? He may intend to ravish me, for aught I know.

_Madam._ Ravish!--_Bagatelle_. I would fain see one impudent Rogue ravish _Madamoiselle: Ouy, je le voudrois_.

_Lady Fan._.O, but my Reputation, _Madamoiselle!_ my Reputation! _Ah ma chere Reputation!_

Madam. _Madame--Quand on la une fois perdue--On n'en est plus embarassée._

_Lady Fan._ Fe, _Madamoiselle_, Fe! Reputation is a Jewel.

Madam. _Qui coute bien chere, Madame._

_Lady Fan._ Why sure you would not sacrifice your Honour to your Pleasure?

Madam. _Je suis Philosophe._

_Lady Fan._ Bless me, how you talk! Why, what if Honour be a Burden, _Madamoiselle_, must it not be borne?

Madam. _Chaqu'un a sa façon--Quand quelque chose m'incommode moy--je m'en defais vite._

_Lady Fan._ Get you gone, you little naughty _French-woman_, you; I vow and swear I must turn you out of doors, if you talk thus.

_Madam._ Turn me out of doors!----Turn yourself out of doors, and go see what de Gentleman have to say to you--_Tenez_. _Voila_ [Giving her her things hastily.] _vostre Esharpe_, _voila vostre Quoife_, _voila vostre Masque_, _voila tout_. _Hey_, _Mercure_, _Coquin_: Call one Chair for Matam, and one oder [_Calling within._] for me: _Va t'en vite_. [Turning to her Lady, and helping her on hastily with her things.] _Allons, Madame, depechez vous donc. Mon Dieu, quelles Scrupules!_

_Lady Fan._ Well, for once, _Madamoiselle_, I'll follow your Advice, out of the intemperate Desire I have to know who this ill-bred Fellow is. But I have too much _Delicatesse_, to make a Practice on't.

Madam. _Belle chose vrayment que la Delicatesse, lors qu'il s'agit de se devertir--à ça--Vous voila equipés, partons.--He bien!--qu'avez vous donc?_

Lady Fan. _J'ay peur._

Madam. _Je n'en ay point moy._

_Lady Fan._ I dare not go.

Madam. _Demeurez donc._

Lady Fan. _Je suis poltrone._

Madam. _Tant pis pour vous._

_Lady Fan._ Curiosity's a wicked Devil.

Madam. _C'est une charmante Sainte._

_Lady Fan._ It ruined our first Parents.

Madam. _Elle a bien diverti leurs Enfans._

Lady Fan. _L'Honneur est contre._

Madam. _La Plaisir est pour._

_Lady Fan._ Must I then go?

_Madam._ Must you go?--Must you eat, must you drink, must you sleep, must you live? De Nature bid you do one, de Nature bid you do toder. _Vous me ferez enrager._

_Lady Fan._ But when Reason corrects Nature, _Madamoiselle_----

Madam. _Elle est donc bien insolente, c'est sa Sœur aisnée._

_Lady Fan._ Do you then prefer your Nature to your Reason, _Madamoiselle_?

Madam. _Ouy da._

Lady Fan. _Pourquoy?_

_Madam._ Because my Nature make me merry, my Reason make me mad.

Lady Fan. _Ah la mechante Françoise!_

Madam. _Ah la belle Angloise!_

[_Forcing her Lady off._

+ACT+ II.

+SCENE+, _St. ~James~'s Park_.

_Enter Lady ~Fancyfull and Madamoiselle~._

_Lady Fan._ Well, I vow, _Madamoiselle_, I'm strangely impatient to know who this confident Fellow is.

_Enter ~Heartfree~._

Look, there's _Heartfree_. But sure it can't be him; he's a profess'd Woman-hater. Yet who knows what my wicked Eyes may have done?

Madam. _Il nous approche, Madame._

_Lady Fan._ Yes, 'tis he: now will he be most intolerably cavalier, tho' he should be in love with me.

_Heart._ Madam, I'm your humble Servant; I perceive you have more Humility and Good-Nature than I thought you had.

_Lady Fan._ What you attribute to Humility and Good-Nature, Sir, may perhaps be only due to Curiosity. I had a mind to know who 'twas had ill manners enough to write that Letter.

[_Throwing him his Letter._

_Heart._ Well, and now I hope you are satisfy'd.

_Lady Fan._ I am so, Sir: Good by t'ye.

_Heart._ Nay, hold there; tho' you have done your Business, I han't done mine: By your Ladyship's leave, we must have one Moment's Prattle together. Have you a mind to be the prettiest Woman about Town, or not? How she stares upon me! What! this passes for an impertinent Question with you now, because you think you are so already?

_Lady Fan._ Pray, Sir, let me ask you a Question in my Turn: By what Right do you pretend to examine me?

_Heart._ By the same Right that the strong govern the weak, because I have you in my power; for you cannot get so quickly to your Coach, but I shall have time enough to make you hear every thing I have to say to you.

_Lady Fan._ These are strange Liberties you take, Mr. _Heartfree_.

_Heart._ They are so, Madam, but there's no help for it; for know that I have a Design upon you.

_Lady Fan._ Upon me, Sir!

_Heart._ Yes; and one that will turn to your Glory, and my Comfort, if you will but be a little wiser than you use to be.

_Lady Fan._ Very well, Sir.

_Heart._ Let me see----Your Vanity, Madam, I take to be about some eight Degrees higher than any Woman's in the Town, let t'other be who she will; and my Indifference is naturally about the same Pitch. Now, could you find the way to turn this Indifference into Fire and Flames, methinks your Vanity ought to be satisfy'd; and this, perhaps, you might bring about upon pretty reasonable Terms.

_Lady Fan._ And pray at what rate would this Indifference be bought off, if one shou'd have so depraved an Appetite to desire it?

_Heart._ Why, Madam, to drive a Quaker's Bargain, and make but one word with you, if I do part with it--you must lay me down--your Affectation.

_Lady Fan._ My Affectation, Sir!

_Heart._ Why, I ask you nothing but what you may very well spare.

_Lady Fan._ You grow rude, Sir. Come, _Madamoiselle_, 'tis high time to be gone.

Madam. _Allons, allons, allons._

_Heart._ [_Stopping them._] Nay, you may as well stand still; for hear me you shall, walk which way you please.

_Lady Fan._ What mean you, Sir?

_Heart._ I mean to tell you, that you are the most ungrateful Woman upon Earth.

_Lady Fan._ Ungrateful! To whom?

_Heart._ To Nature.

_Lady Fan._ Why, what has Nature done for me?

_Heart._ What you have undone by Art! It made you handsome; it gave you Beauty to a Miracle, a Shape without a Fault, Wit enough to make them relish, and so turn'd you loose to your own Discretion; which has made such work with you, that you are become the Pity of our Sex, and the Jest of your own. There is not a Feature in your Face, but you have found the way to teach it some affected Convulsion; your Feet, your Hands, your very Fingers Ends are directed never to move without some ridiculous Air or other; and your Language is a suitable Trumpet, to draw people's Eyes upon the Raree-show.

_Madam._ [aside] _Est ce qu'on fait l'amour en Angleterre comme ça?_

_Lady Fan._ [_Aside._] Now cou'd I cry for Madness, but that I know he'd laugh at me for it.

_Heart._ Now do you hate me for telling you the Truth, but that's because you don't believe it is so; for were you once convinc'd of that, you'd reform for your own sake. But 'tis as hard to persuade a Woman to quit any thing that makes her ridiculous, as 'tis to prevail with a Poet to see a Fault in his own Play.

_Lady Fan._ Every Circumstance of nice Breeding must needs appear ridiculous to one who has so natural an Antipathy to Good-manners.

_Heart._ But suppose I could find the means to convince you, that the whole World is of my Opinion, and that those who flatter and commend you, do it to no other Intent, but to make you persevere in your Folly, that they may continue in their Mirth.

_Lady Fan._ Sir, tho' you and all that World you talk of shou'd be so impertinently officious, as to think to persuade me I don't know how to behave myself; I shou'd still have Charity enough for my own Understanding, to believe myself in the right, and all you in the wrong.

Madam. _Le voila mort._

[_Exeunt Lady ~Fancyfull~ and ~Madamoiselle~._

_Heart._ [_Gazing after her._] There her single Clapper has publish'd the Sense of the whole Sex. Well, this once I have endeavour'd to wash the Blackamoor white, but henceforward I'll sooner undertake to teach Sincerity to a Courtier, Generosity to an Usurer, Honesty to a Lawyer, nay, Humility to a Divine, than Discretion to a Woman I see has once set her Heart upon playing the Fool.

_Enter ~Constant~._

'Morrow, _Constant_.

_Const._ Good-morrow, _Jack_! What are you doing here this Morning?

_Heart._ Doing! Guess, if thou canst.----Why I have been endeavouring to persuade my Lady _Fancyfull_, that she's the foolishest Woman about Town.

_Const._ A pretty Endeavour, truly!

_Heart._ I have told her in as plain _English_ as I could speak, both what the Town says of her, and what I think of her. In short, I have us'd her as an absolute King would do _Magna Charta_.

_Const._ And how does she take it?

_Heart._ As Children do Pills; bite them, but can't swallow them.

_Const._ But, pr'ythee, what has put it into your Head, of all Mankind, to turn Reformer?

_Heart._ Why one thing was, the Morning hung upon my Hands, I did not know what to do with myself; and another was, that as little as I care for Women, I cou'd not see with Patience one that Heaven had taken such wondrous Pains about, be so very industrious to make herself the Jack-pudding of the Creation.

_Const._ Well, now could I almost wish to see my cruel Mistress make the self-same Use of what Heaven has done for her, that so I might be cur'd of a Disease that makes me so very uneasy; for Love, Love is the Devil, _Heartfree_.

_Heart._ And why do you let the Devil govern you?

_Const._ Because I have more Flesh and Blood than Grace and Self-denial. My dear, dear Mistress! 'S death! that so genteel a Woman should be a Saint, when Religion's out of Fashion!

_Heart._ Nay, she's much in the wrong, truly; but who knows how far Time and good Example may prevail?

_Const._ O! they have play'd their Parts in vain already: 'Tis now two Years since that damned Fellow her Husband invited me to his Wedding; and there was the first time I saw that charming Woman, whom I have lov'd ever since, more than e'er a Martyr did his Soul; but she is cold, my Friend, still cold as the Northern Star.

_Heart._ So are all Women by Nature, which makes them so willing to be warm'd.

_Const._ O don't prophane the Sex! Pr'ythee, think them all Angels for her sake; for she's virtuous even to a Fault.

_Heart._ A Lover's Head is a good accountable Thing truly; he adores his Mistress for being virtuous, and yet is very angry with her because she won't be lewd.

_Const._ Well, the only Relief I expect in my Misery, is to see thee some Day or other as deeply engag'd as myself, which will force me to be merry in the midst of all my Misfortunes.

_Heart._ That Day will never come, be assur'd, _Ned_. Not but that I can pass a Night with a Woman, and for the time, perhaps; make myself as good Sport as you can do. Nay, I can court a Woman too, call her Nymph, Angel, Goddess, what you please: But here's the Difference 'twixt you and I; I persuade a Woman she's an Angel, and she persuades you she's one. Pr'ythee, let me tell you how I avoid falling in Love; that which serves me for Prevention, may chance to serve you for a Cure.

_Const._ Well, use the Ladies moderately then, and I'll hear you.

_Heart._ That using them moderately undoes us all; but I'll use them justly, and that you ought to be satisfied with. I always consider a Woman, not as the Taylor, the Shoemaker, the Tire-woman, the Sempstress, and (which is more than all that) the Poet makes her; but I consider her as pure Nature has contrived her, and that more strictly than I shou'd have done our old Grandmother _Eve_, had I seen her naked in the Garden; for I consider her turn'd inside out. Her Heart well examin'd, I find there Pride, Vanity, Covetousness, Indiscretion, but above all things, Malice; plots eternally a-forging to destroy one another's Reputations, and as honestly to charge the Levity of Men's Tongues with the Scandal; hourly Debates how to make poor Gentlemen in love with them, with no other Intent but to use them like Dogs when they have done; a constant Desire of doing more Mischief, and an everlasting War wag'd against Truth and Good-Nature.

_Const._ Very well, Sir! An admirable Composition, truly!

_Heart._ Then for her Outside, I consider it merely as an Outside; she has a thin Tiffany Covering over just such Stuff as you and I are made on. As for her Motion, her Mien, her Airs, and all those Tricks, I know they affect you mightily. If you should see your Mistress at a Coronation dragging her Peacock's Train, with all her State and Insolence about her, 'twou'd strike you with all the awful Thoughts that Heav'n itself could pretend to from you; whereas I turn the whole Matter into a Jest, and suppose her strutting in the self-same stately Manner, with nothing on her but her Stays and her under scanty quilted Petticoat.

_Const._ Hold thy profane Tongue; for I'll hear no more.

_Heart._ What, you'll love on, then?

_Const._ Yes, to Eternity.

_Heart._ Yet you have no hopes at all?

_Const._ None.

_Heart._ Nay, the Resolution may be discreet enough; perhaps you have found out some new Philosophy, that Love, like Virtue, is its own Reward: So you and your Mistress will be as well content at a Distance, as others that have less Learning are in coming together.

_Const._ No; but if she should prove kind at last, my dear _Heartfree_--

[_Embracing him_.

_Heart._ Nay, pr'ythee, don't take me for your Mistress; for Lovers are very troublesome.

_Const._ Well; who knows what Time may do?

_Heart._ And just now he was sure Time could do nothing.

_Const._ Yet not one kind Glance in two Years, is somewhat strange.

_Heart._ Not strange at all; she don't like you, that's all the Business.

_Const._ Pr'ythee, don't distract me.

_Heart._ Nay, you are a good handsome young Fellow, she might use you better: Come, will you go see her? Perhaps she may have chang'd her Mind; there's some Hopes as long as she's a Woman.

_Const._ O, 'tis in vain to visit her! Sometimes to get a Sight of her, I visit that Beast her Husband; but she certainly finds some Pretence to quit the Room as soon as I enter.

_Heart._ 'Tis much she don't tell him you have made Love to her too; for that's another good-natur'd thing usual amongst Women, in which they have several Ends. Sometimes 'tis to recommend their Virtue, that they may be lewd with the greater Security. Sometimes 'tis to make their Husbands fight, in hopes they may be kill'd, when their Affairs require it should be so: but most commonly 'tis to engage two Men in a Quarrel, that they may have the Credit of being fought for; and if the Lover's kill'd in the Business, they cry, _Poor Fellow, he had ill Luck_----and so they go to Cards.

_Const._ Thy Injuries to Women are not to be forgiven. Look to't, if ever thou dost fall into their Hands----

_Heart._ They can't use me worse than they do you, that speak well of 'em. O ho! here comes the Knight.

_Enter Sir ~John Brute~._

_Heart._ Your humble Servant, Sir _John_.

_Sir John._ Servant, Sir.

_Heart._ How does all your Family?

_Sir John._ Pox o' my Family!

_Const._ How does your Lady? I han't seen her abroad a good while.

_Sir John._ Do! I don't know how she does, not I; she was well enough Yesterday; I han't been at home to-night.

_Const._ What, were you out of Town?

_Sir John._ Out of Town! No, I was drinking.

_Const._ You are a true _Englishman_; don't know your own Happiness. If I were married to such a Woman, I would not be from her a Night for all the Wine in _France_.

_Sir John._ Not from her!----'Oons----what a time should a Man have of that!

_Heart._ Why, there's no Division, I hope.

_Sir John._ No; but there's a Conjunction, and that's worse; a Pox of the Parson----Why the plague don't you two marry? I fancy I look like the Devil to you.

_Heart._ Why, you don't think you have Horns, do you?

_Sir John._ No, I believe my Wife's Religion will keep her honest.

_Heart._ And what will make her keep her Religion?

_Sir John._ Persecution; and therefore she shall have it.

_Heart._ Have a care, Knight! Women are tender things.

_Sir John._ And yet, methinks, 'tis a hard Matter to break their Hearts.

_Const._ Fy, fy! You have one of the best Wives in the World, and yet you seem the most uneasy Husband.

_Sir John._ Best Wives! The Woman's well enough; she has no Vice that I know of, but she's a Wife, and--damn a Wife! If I were married to a Hogshead of Claret, Matrimony would make me hate it.

_Heart._ Why did you marry, then? You were old enough to know your own Mind.

_Sir John._ Why did I marry? I married because I had a mind to lie with her, and she would not let me.

_Heart._ Why did you not ravish her?

_Sir John._ Yes, and so have hedg'd myself into forty Quarrels with her Relations, besides buying my pardon: But more than all that, you must know, I was afraid of being damn'd in those days: For I kept sneaking, cowardly Company, Fellows that went to Church, said Grace to their Meat, and had not the least Tincture of Quality about them.

_Heart._ But I think you are got into a better Gang now?

_Sir John._ Zoons, Sir, my Lord _Rake_ and I are Hand and Glove: I believe we may get our Bones broke together to-night; have you a mind to share a Frolick?

_Const._ Not I, truly; my Talent lies to softer Exercises.

_Sir John._ What, a Down-Bed and a Strumpet? A pox of Venery, I say. Will you come and drink with me this Afternoon?

_Const._ I can't drink to-day, but we'll come and sit an Hour with you, if you will.

_Sir John._ Phugh, Pox, sit an Hour! Why can't you drink?

_Const._ Because I'm to see my Mistress.

_Sir John._ Who's that?

_Const._ Why, do you use to tell?

_Sir John._ Yes.

_Const._ So won't I.

_Sir John._ Why?

_Const._ Because 'tis a Secret.

_Sir John._ Would my Wife knew it, 'twould be no Secret long.

_Const._ Why, do you think she can't keep a Secret?

_Sir John._ No more than she can keep _Lent_.

_Heart._ Pr'ythee, tell it her to try, _Constant_.

_Sir John._ No, pr'ythee, don't, that I mayn't be plagu'd with it.

_Const._ I'll hold you a Guinea you don't make her tell it you.

_Sir John._ I'll hold you a Guinea I do.

_Const._ Which way?

_Sir John._ Why, I'll beg her not to tell it me.

_Heart._ Nay, if any thing does it, that will.

_Const._ But do you think, Sir----