SCENE I.--PENELOPE'S _Lodgings, Covent Garden.

_Enter_ OLD BOOKWIT, PENELOPE, _and_ LETTICE.

_Old Book._ Mistress Penelope, I have your father's leave to wait upon you, madam, and talk to you this morning; nay, to talk to you of marriage.

_Pen._ To talk to me of marriage, sir?

_O. Book._ Yes, madam, in behalf of my son, Tom Bookwit.

_Pen._ Nay, there may perhaps be something said to that. [_Aside._

_O. Book._[53] I sent for him from Oxford with that design. He came to town but yesterday; and, if a father can judge, he brings from a college the mien and air of a court. I love my son entirely, and hope, madam, you take my thoughts as to you, to be no want of respect to you.

_Pen._ 'Twere want of sense, sir, to do that.

_O. Book._ If I can remember my style to my mistress of old, I'll ease Tom's way, and raise her expectation of my son. [_Aside._]--Madam, had I my hat, my feather, pantaloons, and jerkin on, as when I wooed your humble servant's mother, I would deliver you his errand. I married her just such a young thing as you; her complexion was charming, but not indeed with all your sweetness.

_Pen._ Oh! sir!

_O. Book._ Her neck and bosom were the softest pillows; her shape was not of that nice sort. Some young women suffer in shapes of their mother's making, by spare diet, straight lacing, and constant chiding. But 'twas the work of nature, free, unconstrained, healthy, and----But her charms had not all that emanation which yours have.

_Pen._ O fie! fie!

_O. Book._ Not those thousand thousand graces, that soft army of loves and zephyrs, millions of airy beings that attend around you, and appear only to the second sight of lovers.

_Pen._ O fie! Pray, good sir, you'll leave nothing for your son to say.

_O. Book._ I did not think I had such a memory. I find the women are now certainly daughters of the women before 'em: Flattery still does it. [_Aside._]--Tom is my only son, and I extremely desire to have him settled. I own I think him of much merit.

_Pen._ He would derogate from his birth were he not much a gentleman. But to receive a man in the character of a pretender at first sight----

_O. Book._ I'll walk him by and by before your window, where your own eyes shall judge. I think there's nothing above his pretences but yourself; but when one of so many excellent qualities bestows herself, it must be condescension. You shall not answer--Farewell, daughter; we are but too apt to believe what we wish. [_Exit_ OLD BOOK.

_Pen._ 'Tis as you said, Lettice, Old Bookwit came to propose his son.

_Lett._ I overheard the old gentleman talk of it last night. But, madam, you han't heard the song that was made on you. Oh! 'tis mighty pretty! The gentleman is dying for you, he says it. Pure, pure verses.

_Pen,_ Whoever writ 'em, he's not the first poet I have made. They may talk, and say nature makes a poet, but I say love makes a poet. Don't you see elder brothers, who are by nature born above wit, shall fall in love, and write verses: nay, and pretty good ones, considering they can tag 'em to settlements. But let's see.

[_Reading._] "TO CELIA'S SPINET.

"Thou soft machine that dost her hand obey, Tell her my grief in thy harmonious lay."

Poor man!

"To shun my moan to thee she'll fly; To her touch be sure reply, And, if she removes it, die."

The device is just and truly poetical.

"Know thy bliss--"

Ay, ay, there I come in.

"Know thy bliss, with rapture shake, Tremble o'er all thy numerous make; Speak in melting sounds my tears, Speak my joys, my hopes, my fears--"

Which all depend upon me.

"Thus force her, when from me she'd fly, By her own hand, like me, to die."

Well, certainly nothing touches the heart of woman so much as poetry. I suppose the master is in the next room. 'Tis his hour; desire him to walk in. 'Twill make one's ears tingle, a song on one's self!

[_Here the song is performed to a spinet._

Well, dost think, Lettice, my grave lover writ this fine thing--say'st thou?

_Lett._ No, madam, nobody writes songs on those they are sure of.

_Pen._ Sure of me! the insolent!

_Lett._ Nay, I know no more but that he said he'd turn me away as soon as he had married you.

_Pen._ 'Tis like enough; that's the common practice of your jealous-headed fellows. Well, I have a good mind to dress myself anew, put on my best looks, and send for him to dismiss him. I know he loves me.

_Lett._ I never knew him show it but by his jealousy.

_Pen._ As you say, a jealous fellow love! 'tis all mistake--'tis only for himself he has desires; nor cares what the object of his wishes suffers so he himself has satisfaction.--No, he has a gluttony, an hunger for me.

_Lett._ An hunger for you! I protest, madam, if you'd let me be his cook, and make you ready, I'd poison him. But I'm glad Simon disobeyed you, and told the gentleman's servant who you were, and your lodging.

_Pen._ Did the rogue do so? Call him hither.

_Lett._ Simon, why Simon!

_Enter_ SIMON.

_Pen._ Sirrah, I find I must at last turn you off, you saucy fellow. Don't stand staring and dodging with your feet, and wearing out your livery hat with squeezing for an excuse, but answer me, and that presently.

_Sim._ I will, madam, as soon as you ask me a question.

_Pen._ Not afore then--Mr. Pert, don't you know, you told the gentleman's footman in the park who I was, against my constant order, when I walk early. Come, sirrah, tell all that passed between you.

_Sim._ Why, madam, the gentleman's gentleman came up to me very civilly, and said his master was in discourse with my lady, he supposed; then he fell into talk about vails[54]--about profits in a service; at last, after a deal of civil discourse between us----

_Pen._ Come, without this preamble, what he asked you, impertinence; tell that, do.

_Sim._ He asked about you, and Madam Victoria. I said the handsomest of the two is my lady.

_Pen._ Speak on boldly, Simon; I'm never angry at a servant that speaks truth.

_Sim._ He told me he should be very proud of my acquaintance. Indeed, madam, the man was very well spoken, and showed a great deal of respect for me, on your ladyship's account. He is a mighty well spoken man, and said he found I was a smart gentleman; said he'd come again.

_Pen._ Go, you have done your business. Go down. [_Exit._

_Lett._ Well, after all, madam, I did not think that gentleman displeased you.

_Pen._[55] Had but young Bookwit his mien and conversation, how easily would he exclude Lovemore!

_Enter_ SERVANT.

_Ser._ Mr. Lovemore is coming up, madam.

_Pen._ He has not heard, sure, of this new proposal!

_Lett._ 'Tis possible he may, and come to rant or upbraid your ladyship. I wonder you endure him on these occasions.

_Pen._ I'll rack his very heart-strings. He shall know all that man e'er suffered for his native mistress, woman.

_Lett._ His father, madam, has been so long coming out of Suffolk---There are strange tricks in the world, but 'tis not my place to speak.

_Pen._ However, his father, may come at last. I will not wholly lose him; as bad as he is, he's better than no husband at all. Stay in the room; I'll talk to you as if he were not present.

_Enter_ LOVEMORE.

_Love._[56] Ah! Penelope! inconstant, fickle Penelope!

_Pen._ But, Lettice, you don't tell me what the gentleman said. Now there's nobody here, you may speak.

_Love._ Now there's nobody here? Then I am a thing, a utensil! I am nobody, I have no essence that I am sensible of! I think 'twill be so soon!--This ingrate--this perjured!

_Pen._ Tell me, I say, how the match happened to break off?

_Love._ This is downright abuse! What! don't you see me, madam?

_Lett._ He had the folly, upon her being commonly civil to him, to talk of directing her affairs before his time. In the first place, he thought it but necessary her maid, her faithful servant, Mrs. Betty, should be removed.

_Love._ Her faithful servant, Mrs. Betty? Her betrayer, her whisperer, Mrs. Lettice! Madam, would you but hear me? I will be heard!

_Pen._ Prithee step, Lettice, and see what noise is that without.

_Love._ The noise is here, madam; 'tis I that make what you call noise. 'Tis I that claim aloud my right and speak to all the world the wrongs I suffer.

_Pen._ Cooling herbs, well steeped--a good anodyne at night, made of the juice of hellebore, with very thin diet, may be of use in these cases. [_Both looking at him as disturbed._

_Love._ Cases! what cases? I shall downright run mad with this damned usage! Am I a jest?

_Lett._ A jest? No, faith, this is far from a merry madness. Ha! ha! ha!

_Love._ Harkee, Lettice, I'll downright box you. Hold your tongue, gipsy.

_Lett._ Dear madam, save me! Go you to him.

_Pen._ Let him take you.--Bless me, how he stares! Take her.

_Lett. Pen._ Take her. [_Running round each other._

_Love._ Very fine!--No, madam, your gallant, your spark last night; your fine dancer, entertainer, shall take you. He that was your swain; and you, I warrant, a fantastic nymph of the flood or forest. Ha! ha! ha! To be out all night with a young fellow! Oh! that makes you change your countenance, does it so? Fine lady--you wonder how I came to know. Why, choose a discreeter the next time--he told me all himself. Swoon--die for shame at hearing of these words--do!

_Pen._ I am, indeed, downright ashamed for him that speaks 'em. Whence this insolence, if not from utter distraction, under this roof?

_Love._ Oh, the ingrate! Have not I, madam, two long years, two ages, with humblest resignation, depended on your smile? and shall I suffer one of yesterday's to treat you, to dance all night with you?

_Pen._[57] Speak softly; my father's coming down.

_Love._ Thy father's coming down! Faithless! Thou hast no father--But to cross me by night upon the water!

_Pen._ Well, by night upon the water; what then?

_Love._ Yes, all night.

_Pen._ What of that?

_Love._ Without blushing when you hear of 't!

_Pen._ Blush for what? What do you drive at?

_Love._ Can you, then, coolly ask what 'tis I mean, thou reveller, thou rambler? A fine young lady, with your midnight frolics! But what do I pretend to? I know not how with bended knees to call you Ceres; make you an offering of summer fruits, and deify your vanity! Thou art no goddess; thou'rt a very woman, with all the guile! Your barges! your treats! your fireworks!

_Pen._ What means the insolent? You grow insufferable!

_Love._ Oh, Penelope! that look, that disdainful look has pierced my soul, and ebbed my rage to penitence and sorrow. I own my fault; I'm too rash----

_Pen._ The imaginary enemies you raise are but mere forms of your sickly brain: so I think, and scorn 'em. A diffident, a humorous, and ungenerous man, who, without grounds, calls me inconstant, shall surely find me so. She will be very happy that takes a constant man with twenty thousand humours.

_Love._ Is it a fault my life's bound up in thee, That all my powers change with thy looks, That my eyes gloat on thee when thou'rt present, And ache and roll for light when thou'rt absent?

_Pen._ A little ill-usage, I see, improves a lover. I never heard him speak so well in my life before. [_Aside._

_Love._ Of you I am not jealous: 'Tis my own indesert[58] that gives me fears, And tenderness forms dangers where they're not; I doubt and envy all things that approach thee: Not a fond mother of a long-wished-for only child beholds with such kind terrors her infant offspring, as I do her I love. She thinks its food, if she's not by, unwholesome; and all the ambient air made up of fevers and of quartan agues, except she shrouds it in her arms. Such is my unpitied, anxious care for you; and can I see another----

_Pen._ What other?

_Love._ Nay, if you make a secret of your meeting, there's all that I suspect in it. Another? Young Bookwit is another----

_Pen._ I never saw his face. Young Bookwit?

_Love._ What! not though he solicited a glance, with symphonies of charming note, with sumptuous dishes? Not when the flying meteors from the earth made a new day? Not see him? Oh, that was hard; that was unkind! Not one look for all this gallantry?--But love is blind. You can be all night with the son, all day with the father, and never see either. His father was here this morning.--Seek not to excuse: I find your arts, and see their aim too. Go, go, take your Bookwit; forget your lover, as he now must you. [_Going._

_Pen._ Hear but three words.

_Love._ What shall they be?

_Pen._ Prithee hear me.

_Love._ No, no, your father's coming down.

_Pen._ He's not coming, nor can he overhear us. There's time and privacy enough to disabuse you.

_Love._ I'll hear nothing unless you will be married; unless you give me, as a present earnest of yourself, three kisses, and your word for ever.

_Pen._ To give way to my satisfaction, then, and be friends again, you would, Mr. Lovemore, have three kisses----

_Love._ Three kisses, your faith and hand.

_Pen._ Nothing else? Will you be so contented?

_Love._ I'll expect higher terms if you accept not these--Quickly, then.

_Pen._ Well, then--no, my father's coming. Ha! ha! ha!

_Love._ Laugh at my sufferings! slight my anger! Is this your base requital of my love?-- Revenge, revenge! I'll print on thy favourite in his heart's blood my revenge. Our swords--our swords shall dispute our pretences, rather than he enjoy what my long services entitle me to, which is to do myself right for what he intends an injury; though perhaps what we shall dispute for is better lost.

_Pert._ Mr. Lovemore, you have taken very great liberties. You say I have injured you in my regard to another. Is your opinion, then, of what you say you will dispute for, such as you just now said--better lost?

_Love._ Look you, madam--so--therefore--as to that--this is such--for that it--You don't consider what you said to me.

_Pen._ Ha! ha! ha!

_Love._ You shall by all that's--you shall repent this. [_Flings out._

_Pen._ This is all we have for 't, a little dominion beforehand. These are the creatures that are born to rule us; who creep, who flatter, and servilely beseech our favour; which obtained, they grow sullen, proud, and insolent; pry into the gift, the manner of bestowing, with all the little arts the ungrateful use to hide, or kill their sense and conscience of a benefit.

_Lett._ Ay, ay, madam, 'tis so. I had a sweetheart once, a lady's butler, to whom I gave a lock of my hair, and the villain, when we quarrelled, told me half of them were grey.

_Pen._ Ha! ha! ha! the ingrate--the faithless, as Lovemore says.

_Lett._ And yet, madam, the rogue stole a letter out of a book to ask me for it, as my next suitor found out.

_Pen._ However, I am sure 'tis in my fate to be subject to one of them very suddenly.

_Lett._ Ah! madam! the gentleman this morning----

_Pen._ The fellow's very well, and I am mightily mistaken if my cousin Victoria did not think so.

_Lett._ And so do you heartily. [_Aside._

_Pen._ Yet I wish I had seen this young Bookwit before Lovemore came to-day.

_Lett._[59] I'll tell you how, madam. Victoria has ne'er a lover, and is your entire friend. Now, madam, suppose you got her to write a letter to this young gentleman in her own name. You meet him under that name incognito; then, if an accident should happen, both you and she will be safe, and puzzle the truth: you never writ to him, she never met him.

_Pen._ A lucky thought--step to her immediately. I'll come to her, or she to me.

_Lett._ I fly, I fly. [_Exit._

_Pen._ This is, indeed, a lucky hint of the wench, in which I have another drift, too. Now shall I sift my friend Victoria, and perfectly understand whether she likes that agreeable young fellow; for if her reserved humour easily falls in with this design on Bookwit, she's certainly smitten with the other, and suspects me to be so too--What is this dear, this sudden intruder, love, that Victoria's long and faithful friendship, Lovemore's anxious and constant passion, both vanish before it in a moment? Why are our hearts so accessible at our eyes?--My dear----

_Enter_ VICTORIA _and_ LETTICE.

_Vict._ Dear Pen, I ran to you. Well, what is it?

_Pen._ Set chairs, and the bohea tea, and leave us. [_Exit_ LETT.] Dear Victoria, you have always been my most intimate bosom friend; your wary carriage and circumspection have often been a safety against errors to me--I must confess it. [_Filling her tea._

_Vict._ But, my dear, why this preface to me? To the matter--

_Pen._ You know all that has passed between me and Mr. Lovemore.

_Vict._ I have always approved him, and do now more than ever; for 'tis not a mien and air that makes that worthy creature, a kind husband; but----

_Pen._ True, but here was old Bookwit this morning, with my father's authority to talk to me of the subject of love.

_Vict._ Nay, madam, if so, and you can resolve to obey your father--I contend not for Lovemore; for though the young men of this age are so very vicious, so expensive, both of their health and fortune----

_Pen._ How zealous she is to put me out of her way! False creature! [_Aside._]--But, my dear friend, you don't take me; your friendship outruns my explanation. 'Twas for his son at Oxford he came to me: He is to walk with him before the door that I may view him, by-and-by.

_Vict._ Nay, as one must obey their parents wholly, I think a raw young man that never saw the town is better than an old one that has run through all its vices. I congratulate your good fortune. There's a great estate; and he knows nothing--just come to town. The furniture and the horse-cloths will be all your own device for the wedding, and the horses when and where you please. He knows no better.

_Pen._ But one shall be so long teaching a raw creature a manner.

_Vict._ Never let him have one; 'twill make him like himself, and think of making advances elsewhere: You'd better have him a booby.--How could I think of the old fellow for you! Look you, Pen, old age has its infirmities, and 'tis a sad prospect for an honest young woman to be sure of being a nurse, and never of being a mother.

_Pen._ Oh, that I had but your prudence! But, my dear, I have a request to make to you, and that is that you would write him an assignation this evening in the Park. I'll obey the appointment, and converse with him under that disguise; for the old people will clap up a match before I know anything of the real man. And if one don't know one's husband, how can one manage him--that is to say, obey him?

_Vict._ Oh! pray, my dear, do you think I don't understand you? Oh! and there's another thing--a scholar makes the best husband in the world.

_Pen._ Because they are the most knowing?

_Vict._ No, because they are the least knowing.--But I'll go immediately and obey your commands. I wish you heartily well, my dear, in this matter. [_Kissing her._

_Pen._ I thank you, dearest; I don't doubt it indeed.

_Vict._ Where are you going now, my dear? O fie! this is not like a friend--Do I use you so, dear madam?

_Pen._ Nay, indeed, madam, I must wait on you.

_Vict._ Indeed you shan't--indeed you shan't. [PEN. _follows_ VICT.

_Pen._ Well, madam, will you promise, then, to be as free with me?--Thus does she hope to work me out of my lover, by being made my confident--but that baseness has been too fashionable to pass any more. I have not trusted her, the cunning creature. I begin to hate her so--I'll never be a minute from her. [_Exit._