SCENE IV.--LORD HARDY'S _Lodgings.

_Enter_ LORD HARDY, _leading_ HARRIOT; CAMPLEY, _and_ TRIM.

_L. Ha._ Why, then I find this Mr. Trim is a perfect general; but I assure you, sir, I'll never allow you an hero, who could leave your mistress behind you. You should have broke the house down, but you should have mademoiselle with you.

_Trim._ No, really, madam, I have seen such strange fears come into the men's heads, and such strange resolutions into the women's upon the occasion of ladies following a camp, that I thought it more discreet to leave her behind me. My success will naturally touch her as much as if she were here.

_L. Ha._ A good, intelligent, arch fellow this [_Aside._]--But were not you saying, my lord, you believed Lady Brumpton would follow hither? If so, pray let me be gone.

_Ld. H._ No, madam, I must beseech your ladyship to stay, for there are things alleged against her which you, who have lived in the family, may perhaps give light into, and which I can't believe even she could be guilty of.

_L. Ha._ Nay, my lord, that's generous to a folly, for even for her usage of you (without regard to myself), I am ready to believe she would do anything that can come into the head of a close, malicious, cruel, designing woman.

_Enter_ BOY.

_Boy._ My Lady Brumpton's below.

_L. Ha._ I'll run, then.

_Cam._ No, no, stand your ground. You, a soldier's wife? Come, we'll rally her to death.

_Ld. H._ Prithee, entertain her a little, while I go in for a moment's thought on this occasion. [_Exit._

_L. Ha._ She has more wit than us both.

_Cam._ Pshaw, no matter for that; be sure, as soon as the sentence is out of my mouth, to clap in with something else; and laugh at all I say. I'll be grateful, and burst myself at my pretty, witty wife. We'll fall in slap upon her; she shan't have time to say a word of the running away.

_Enter_ LADY BRUMPTON _and_ TRUSTY.

Oh, my Lady Brumpton, your ladyship's most obedient servant: This is my Lady Harriot Campley. Why, madam, your ladyship is immediately in your mourning. Nay, as you have more wit than anybody, so (what seldom wits have) you have more prudence, too. Other widows have nothing in a readiness but a second husband; but you, I see, had your very weeds and dress lying by you.

_L. Ha._ Ay, madam; I see your ladyship is of the Order of Widowhood, for you have put on the habit.

_Wid._ I see your ladyship is not of the profession of virginity, for you have lost the look on't.

_Cam._ You are in the habit--That was so pretty; nay, without flattery, Lady Harriot, you have a great deal of wit. Ha! ha! ha!

_L. Ha._ No, my Lady Brumpton here is the woman of wit; but, indeed, she has but little enough, considering how much her ladyship has to defend. Ha! ha! ha!

_Wid._ I am sorry, madam, your ladyship has not what's sufficient for your occasions, or that this pretty gentleman can't supply 'em----[CAMPLEY _dancing about and trolling._ Hey, day! I find, sir, your heels are a great help to your head. They relieve your wit, I see; and I don't question but ere now they have been as kind to your valour. Ha! ha!

_Cam._ Pox, I can say nothing; 'tis always thus with your endeavours to be witty [_Aside._]--I saw, madam, your mouth go, but there could be nothing offered in answer to what my Lady Harriot said.--'Twas home--'Twas cutting satire.

_L. Ha._ Oh, Mr. Campley! But pray, madam, has Mr. Cabinet visited your ladyship since this calamity? How stands that affair now?

_Wid._ Nay, madam, if you already want instructions, I'll acquaint you how the world stands, if you are in distress--but I fear Mr. Campley overhears us.

_Cam._ And all the tune the pipers played was Toll-toll-doroll. I swear, Lady Harriot, were I not already yours, I could have a tender for this lady.

_Wid._ Come, good folks, I find we are very free with each other. What makes you two here? Do you board my lord, or he you? Come, come, ten shillings a head will go a great way in a family. What do you say, Mrs. Campley, is it so? Does your ladyship go to market yourself? Nay, you're in the right of it. Come, can you imagine what makes my lord stay? He is not now with his land-steward. Not signing leases, I hope? Ha! ha! ha!

_Cam._ Hang her, to have more tongue than a man and his wife too. [_Aside._

_Enter_ LORD HARDY.

_Ld. H._ Because your ladyship is, I know, in very much pain in company you have injured, I'll be short--Open those doors--There lies your husband's, my father's body; and by you stands the man accuses you of poisoning him.

_Wid._ Of poisoning him!

_Tru._ The symptoms will appear upon the corpse.

_Ld. H._ But I am seized by nature--How shall I view, a breathless lump of clay, him whose high veins conveyed to me this vital force and motion? I cannot bear that sight-- I am as fixed and motionless as he-- [_They open the coffin, out of which jumps_ LADY SHARLOT.[33] Art thou the ghastly shape my mind had formed? Art thou the cold, inanimate--bright maid? Thou giv'st new higher life to all around. Whither does fancy, fired with love, convey me? Whither transported by my pleasing fury? The season vanishes at thy approach; 'Tis morn, 'tis spring-- Daisies and lillies strow thy flowery way. Why is my fair unmoved--my heavenly fair? Does she but smile at my exalted rapture?

_L. Sh._ Oh! sense of praise, to me unfelt before, Speak on, speak on, and charm my attentive ear. How sweet applause is from an honest tongue! Thou lov'st my mind--hast well affection placed; In what, nor time, nor age, nor care, nor want can alter. Oh, how I joy in thee, my eternal lover; Immutable as the object of thy flame! I love, I am proud, I triumph that I love. Pure, I approach thee; nor did I with empty shows, Gorgeous attire, or studied negligence, Or song, or dance, or ball, allure thy soul; Nor want, or fear, such arts to keep or lose it: Nor now with fond reluctance doubt to enter My spacious, bright abode, this gallant heart.[34] [_Reclines on_ HARDY.

_L. Ha._ Ay, marry, these are high doings indeed; the greatness of the occasion has burst their passion into speech. Why, Mr Campley, when we are near these fine folks, you and I are but mere sweethearts. I protest I'll never be won so; you shall begin again with me.

_Cam._ Prithee, why dost name us poor animals? They have forgot there are such creatures as their old acquaintance Tom and Harriot.

_Ld. H._ So we did indeed, but you'll pardon us.

_Cam._ My lord, I never thought to see the minute wherein I should rejoice at your forgetting me, but now I do heartily. [_Embracing._

_L. Sh._ Harriot.} }[_Embracing._] _L. Ha._ Sharlot.}

_Wid._ Sir, you're at the bottom of all this; I see you're skilled at close conveyances. I'll know the meaning instantly of these intricacies. 'Tis not your seeming honesty and gravity shall save you from your deserts. My husband's death was sudden. You and the burial fellow were observed very familiar. Produce my husband's body, or I'll try you for his murder; which I find you'd put on me, thou hellish engine!

_Tru._ Look you, madam, I could answer you, but I scorn to reproach people in misery. You're undone, madam.

_Wid._ What does the dotard mean? Produce the body, villain, or the law shall have thine for it. [TRUSTY _exit hastily._]--Do you design to let the villain escape? How justly did your father judge, that made you a beggar with that spirit! You meant just now you could not bear the company of those you'd injured.

_Ld. H._ You are a woman, madam, and my father's widow. But sure you think you've highly injured me.

[_Here_ LORD BRUMPTON _and_ TRUSTY _half enter and observe._

_Wid._ No, sir, I have not, will not, injure you. I must obey the will of my deceased lord to a tittle; I must justly pay legacies. Your father, in consideration that you were his blood, would not wholly alienate you. He left you, sir, this shilling, with which estate you now are Earl of Brumpton.

_Ld. H._ Insolent woman! it was not me my good father disinherited; 'twas him you represented. The guilt was thine; he did an act of justice.

LORD BRUMPTON, _entering with_ TRUSTY.

_Ld. B._ Oh, unparalleled goodness!

TATTLEAID _and_ MADEMOISELLE _at the other door entering._

_Tru._ Oh! Tattleaid, his and our hour is come.

_Wid._ What do I see? My lord, my master, husband, living?

_Ld. B._ [_Turning from her, running to his son._] Oh, my boy, my son. Mr. Campley, Sharlot, Harriot! [_All kneeling to him._] Oh, my children! Oh, oh! These passions are too strong for my old frame. Oh, the sweet torture! my son! my son! I shall expire in the too mighty pleasure! my boy!

_Ld. H._ A son, an heir, a bridegroom in one hour! Oh! grant me, Heaven, grant me moderation!

_Wid._ A son, an heir! Am I neglected then? What? can my lord revive, yet dead to me? Only to me deceased--to me alone, Deaf to my sighs, and senseless to my moan?

_Ld. B._ 'Tis so long since I have seen plays, good madam, that I know not whence thou dost repeat, nor can I answer.

_Wid._ You can remember, though, a certain settlement, in which I am thy son and heir. Great noble, that's I suppose not taken from a play? That's as irrevocable as law can make it, that if you scorn me, your death and life are equal; or I'll still wear my mourning 'cause you're living.

_Tru._ Value her not, my lord; a prior obligation made you incapable of settling on her, your wife.

_Ld. B._ Thy kindness, Trusty, does distract thee. I would indeed disengage myself by any honest means, but, alas, I know no prior gift that avoids this to her--Oh, my child!

_Tru._ Look you, madam, I'll come again immediately. Be not troubled, my dear lords----[_Exit._

_Cam._ Trusty looks very confident; there is some good in that.

_Re-enter_ TRUSTY _with_ CABINET.

_Cab._ What, my Lord Brumpton living? nay then----

_Tru._ Hold, sir, you must not stir, nor can you, sir, retract this for your hand-writing.--My lord, this gentleman, since your supposed death, has lurked about the house to speak with my lady, or Tattleaid, who upon your decease have shunned him, in hopes, I suppose, to buy him off for ever. Now, as he was prying about, he peeped into your closet, where he saw your lordship reading. Struck with horror, and believing himself (as well he might) the disturber of your ghost for alienation of your fortune from your family, he writ me this letter, wherein he acknowledges a private marriage with this lady, half a year before you ever saw her.

_All._ How? [_All turn upon her disdainfully._

_Wid._ No more a widow then, but still a wife. [_Recovering from her confusion._ I am thy wife--thou author of my evil Thou must partake with me an homely board, An homely board that never shall be cheerful; But every meal embittered with upbraidings. Thou that could'st tell me, good and ill were words, When thou could'st basely let me to another, Yet could'st see sprights, great unbeliever! Coward! Bug-beared penitent---- Stranger henceforth to all my joys, my joys To thy dishonour; despicable thing, Dishonour thee? Thou voluntary cuckold. [CABINET _sneaks off,_ WIDOW _flings after him,_ TATTLEAID _following._

_Ld. B._ I see you're all confused as well as I. Ye are my children, I hold you all so; and for your own use will speak plainly to you. I cannot hate that woman; nor shall she ever want. Though I scorn to bear her injuries, yet had I ne'er been roused from that low passion to a worthless creature, but by disdain of her attempt on my friend's child. I am glad that scorn's confirmed by her being that fellow's, whom, for my own sake, I only will contemn. Thee, Trusty, how shall we prosecute with equal praise and thanks for this great revolution in our house?

_Tru._ Never to speak on't more, my lord.

_Ld. B._ You are now, gentlemen, going into cares at a crisis[35] in your country. And on this great occasion, Tom, I'll mount Old Campley which thy father gave me, And attend thee a cheerful gay old man, Into the field to represent our county. My rough plebeian Britons, not yet slaves To France, shall mount thy father's son Upon their shoulders. Echo loud their joy, While I and Trusty follow weeping after: But be thou honest, firm, impartial, Let neither love, nor hate, nor faction move thee,[36] Distinguish words from things, and men from crimes; Punctual be thou in payments, nor basely Screen thy faults 'gainst law, behind the Laws thou makest But thou against my death, must learn a supererogatory morality. [_To_ LORD HARDY. As he is to be just, be generous thou: Nor let thy reasonable soul be struck With sounds and appellations; title is No more, if not significant Of something that's superior in thyself To other men, of which thou may'st be Conscious, yet not proud--But if you swerve From higher virtue than the crowd possess, Know, they that call thee honourable mock thee. You are to be a Peer, by birth a judge Upon your honour, of others' lives and fortunes; Because that honour's dearer than your own. Be good, my son, and be a worthy lord For when our shining virtues bless mankind, We disappoint the livid malcontents, Who long to call our noble Order useless. Our all's in danger, sir, nor shall you dally Your youth away with your fine wives. No, in your country's cause you shall meet death, While feeble we with minds resigned do wait it. Not but I intend your nuptials as soon as possible, to draw entails and settlements. How necessary such things are, I had like to have been a fatal instance.

_Cam._ But, my lord, here are a couple that need not wait such ceremonies. Please but to sit; you've been extremely moved, and must be tired. You say we must not spend our time in dalliance; you'll see, my lord, the entertainment reminds us also of nobler things, and what I designed for my own wedding I'll compliment the general with. The bride dances finely. Trim, will you dance with her?

_Trim._ I will, but I can't. There's a countryman of hers without, by accident.

_Cam._ Ay, but is he a dancer?

_Trim._ Is a Frenchman a dancer? Is a Welshman a gentleman? I'll bring him in.

[_Here a dance and the following songs._

_Set by_ MR. DANIEL PURCELL.[37]

_Sung by_ JEMMIE BOWIN.

I. On yonder bed supinely laid, Behold thy loved expecting maid: In tremor, blushes, half in tears, Much, much she wishes, more she fears. Take, take her to thy faithful arms, Hymen bestows thee all her charms.

II. Heaven to thee bequeaths the fair, To raise thy joy, and lull thy care; Heaven made grief, if mutual, cease, But joy, divided, to increase: To mourn with her exceeds delight, Darkness with her, the joys of light.

_Sung by_ MR. PATE.

I. Arise, arise, great dead, for arms renowned, Rise from your urns, and save your dying story, Your deeds will be in dark oblivion drowned, For mighty William seizes all your glory.

II. Again the British trumpet sounds, Again Britannia bleeds; To glorious death, or comely wounds, Her godlike monarch leads.

III. Pay us, kind fate, the debt you owe, Celestial minds from clay untie, Let coward spirits dwell below, And only give the brave to die.

_Ld. B._ Now, gentlemen, let the miseries which I have but miraculously escaped, admonish you to have always inclinations proper for the stage of life you're in. Don't follow love when nature seeks but ease; otherwise you'll fall into a lethargy of your dishonour, when warm pursuits of glory are over with you; for fame and rest are utter opposites.

You who the path of honour make your guide, Must let your passion with your blood subside; And no untimed ambition, love, or rage Employ the moments of declining age; Else boys will in your presence lose their fear, And laugh at the grey-head they should revere.

EPILOGUE.

_Spoken by_ LORD HARDY.

Love, hope and fear, desire, aversion, rage, All that can move the soul, or can assuage, Are drawn in miniature of life, the stage. Here you can view yourselves, and here is shown To what you're born in sufferings not your own. The stage to wisdom's no fantastic way, Athens herself learned virtue at a play. Our author me to-night a soldier drew, But faintly writ, what warmly you pursue: To his great purpose, had he equal fire, He'd not aim to please only, but inspire; He'd sing what hovering fate attends our isle, And from base pleasure rouse to glorious toil: Full time the earth to a new decision brings; While William gives the Roman eagle wings: With arts and arms shall Britain tamely end, Which naked Picts so bravely could defend? The painted heroes on th' invaders press, And think their wounds addition to their dress; In younger years we've been with conquest blest, And Paris has the British yoke confessed; Is't then in England, in lost England, known, Her kings are named from a revolted throne? But we offend--You no examples need, In imitation of yourselves proceed; 'Tis you your country's honour must secure, By all your actions worthy of Namur: With gentle fires your gallantry improve, Courage is brutal, if untouched with love: If soon our utmost bravery's not displayed, Think that bright circle must be captives made; Let thoughts of saving them our toils beguile, And they reward our labours with a smile.

_THE LYING LOVER:_

OR

_THE LADIES' FRIENDSHIP._

"Hæc nôsse salus est adolescentulis."[38]--TERTULLIAN.

_The Lying Lover: or the Ladies' Friendship_, a Comedy, was acted at Drury Lane Theatre on December 2, 1703, and ran for six nights. It was published by Bernard Lintot on January 26, 1704. Wilks (Bookwit, jun.), Mills (Lovemore), Cibber (Latine), Pinkethman (Storm), and Bullock (Charcoal), together with Mrs. Oldfield (Victoria), and Mrs. Rogers (Penelope), acted in this piece, which, so far as is known, has been revived only once (April 4, 1746) since it was originally produced. The plot was taken from _Le Menteur_, by Corneille, who had borrowed from Ruiz de Alarcon's _Verdad Sospechosa_. Steele is, of course, solely responsible for the scenes in Newgate towards the end of the piece. Samuel Foote afterwards made much use of Steele's play in his _Liar_.

_To His Grace the_

DUKE OF ORMOND.[39]

MY LORD,

Out of gratitude to the memorable and illustrious patron of my infancy,[40] your Grace's grandfather, I presume to lay this Comedy at your feet. The design of it is to banish out of conversation all entertainment which does not proceed from simplicity of mind, good-nature, friendship, and honour. Such a purpose will not, I hope, be unacceptable to so great a lover of mankind as your Grace; and if your patronage can recommend it to all who love and honour the Duke of Ormond, its reception will be as extensive as the world itself.

'Twas the irresistible force of this humanity in your temper that has carried you through the various successes of war, with the peculiar and undisputed distinction that you have drawn your sword without other motive than a passionate regard for the glory of your country; since before you entered into its service, you were possessed of its highest honours, but could not be contented with the illustrious rank your birth gave you, without repeating the glorious actions by which it was acquired.

But there cannot be less expected from the son of an Ossory, than to contemn life, to adorn it, and with munificence, affability, scorn of gain, and passion for glory, to be the honour and example to the profession of arms; all which engaging qualities your noble family has exerted with so steadfast a loyalty, that in the most adverse fortune of our monarchy, popularity, which in others had been invidious, was a security to the Crown, when lodged in the House of Ormond.

Thus your Grace entered into the business of the world with so great an expectation, that it seemed impossible there could be anything left which might still conduce to the honour of your name. But the most memorable advantage your country has gained this century was obtained under your command; and Providence thought fit to give the wealth of the Indies into his hands, who only could despise it; while, with a superior generosity, he knows no reward but in opportunities of bestowing. The great personage whom you succeed in your honours, made me feel, before I was sensible of the benefit, that this glorious bent of mind is hereditary to you. I hope, therefore, you will pardon me, that I take the liberty of expressing my veneration for his remains, by assuring your Grace that I am,

My Lord,

Your Grace's most obedient

And most devoted

Humble Servant,

RICHARD STEELE.

THE PREFACE.

Though it ought to be the care of all Governments that public representations should have nothing in them but what is agreeable to the manners, laws, religion, and policy of the place or nation in which they are exhibited; yet is it the general complaint of the more learned and virtuous amongst us, that the English stage has extremely offended in this kind. I thought, therefore, it would be an honest ambition to attempt a Comedy which might be no improper entertainment in a Christian commonwealth.

In order to this, the spark of this play is introduced with as much agility and life as he brought with him from France, and as much humour as I could bestow upon him in England. But he uses the advantages of a learned education, a ready fancy, and a liberal fortune, without the circumspection and good sense which should always attend the pleasures of a gentleman; that is to say, a reasonable creature.

Thus he makes false love, gets drunk, and kills his man; but in the fifth Act awakes from his debauch, with the compunction and remorse which is suitable to a man's finding himself in a gaol for the death of his friend, without his knowing why.

The anguish he there expresses, and the mutual sorrow between an only child and a tender father in that distress, are, perhaps, an injury to the rules of comedy, but I am sure they are a justice to those of morality. And passages of such a nature being so frequently applauded on the stage, it is high time that we should no longer draw occasions of mirth from those images which the religion of our country tells us we ought to tremble at with horror.

But her Most Excellent Majesty has taken the stage into her consideration;[41] and we may hope, by her gracious influence on the Muses, wit will recover from its apostasy; and that, by being encouraged in the interests of virtue, it will strip vice of the gay habit in which it has too long appeared, and clothe it in its native dress of shame, contempt, and dishonour.

PROLOGUE.

All the commanding powers that awe mankind Are in a trembling poet's audience joined, Where such bright galaxies of beauty sit, And at their feet assembled men of wit: Our author, therefore, owns his deep despair To entertain the learned or the fair; Yet hopes that both will so much be his friends, To pardon what he does, for what he intends; He aims to make the coming action move On the dread laws of friendship and of love; Sure then he'll find but very few severe, Since there's of both so many objects here. He offers no gross vices to your sight, Those too much horror raise for just delight; And to detain the attentive knowing ear, Pleasure must still have something that's severe.[42] If then you find our author treads the stage With just regard to a reforming age; He hopes, he humbly hopes, you'll think there's due Mercy to him, for justice done to you.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

OLD BOOKWIT.

YOUNG BOOKWIT, the "Lying Lover."

LOVEMORE, in love with PENELOPE.

FREDERICK, Friend to LOVEMORE.

LATINE, Friend to YOUNG BOOKWIT.

STORM, a Highwayman.

CHARCOAL, an Alchemist and Coiner.

SIMON, Servant to PENELOPE.

PENELOPE.

VICTORIA, Friend to PENELOPE.

BETTY, VICTORIA'S Woman.

LETTICE, PENELOPE'S Woman.

Constables, Watch, Turnkey, Cookmaid, and several Gaol-birds.

SCENE--LONDON.

_THE LYING LOVER: OR, THE LADIES' FRIENDSHIP._

ACT THE FIRST.