SCENE III.--PENELOPE'S _Lodgings.

_Enter_ PENELOPE _and_ VICTORIA.

_Pen._ It seems Simon lay out all night, and was carried away by the watch with some gentlemen in a quarrel.

_Vict._ I fancy the men who are always for showing their valour are like the women who are always talking of their chastity, because they are conscious of their defect in it.

_Pen._ Right; for we are not apt to raise arguments but about what we think is disputable.

_Vict._ Ay, ay, they whose honour is a sore part are more fearful of being touched than they in whom 'tis only a tender one. But tell me honestly, Penelope, should poor Lovemore be in this rencounter, and that for your sake, would it have no effect upon you in his favour?

_Pen._ I don't know how to answer you; but I find something in that reflection which acquaints me 'tis very hard for one to know one's own heart. [_Sighs._

_Vict._ However, let your heart answer me one question more, as well as it can. Does it love me as well as ever it did?

_Pen._ Does not, madam, that question proceed from a change in your own?

_Vict._ It does, Penelope; I own it does----I had a long conflict with myself on my pillow last night.

_Pen._ What were your thoughts there?

_Vict._ That I owed it to our friendship to acknowledge to you that all the pleasure I once had in you is vanished. Ah, Penelope! I'm sorry for every good quality you have.

_Pen._ Since you are so frank, I must confess to you something very like this. But however I envied that sprightly, ingenuous, native beauty of yours, I see it now so much the figure of your mind that I can conquer, I think I can, any inclination in myself that opposes the happiness of so sincere a friend.

_Vict._ Explain yourself, my dear.

_Pen._ I'll discountenance this Bookwit's ambiguous addresses; and if Lovemore can forgive my late ill-usage----I need say no more.

_Enter_ SERVANT.

_Serv._ Mr. Frederick below desires to see you on some extraordinary business.

_Vict._ I have not time, my dearest friend, to applaud or thank you, but must run in----He comes from Lovemore----remember. [_Exit._

_Pen._ Let him come up----Now can't I for my life forbear a little tyranny.

_Enter_ FREDERICK _and_ LOVEMORE.

_Pen._ Good morrow, sir. I believe I know your business: you're officious for your friend----But I am deaf.

_Fred._ I know you are, and have been; but I come only to do him a last office. He'll trouble you no more, but I must conjure you to read this, and inform this learned gentleman what you know of this misfortune.

_Pen._ [_Reading._] "Your cruelty provoked me to desire the favour of dying by Mr. Bookwit's hand, since he had taken from me more than life in robbing me of you----farewell for ever----I direct Frederick not to give you this till I am no more." Writ in his blood! "Till I am no more!" Lovemore no more! Thou shalt not be no more----thou shalt live here for ever. Here, thou dearest paper, mingle with my life's stream; either the paper bleeds anew, or my eyes weep blood. So let 'em do forever----Oh, my Lovemore! did the vanity of a prating boy banish thy solid services and manly love?

_Fred._ This is no reparation to him for his lost life, nor me for my lost friend. Yet when you please to receive 'em, I am obliged to deliver you some papers, wherein he has given you all the fortune he could bestow, nor would revoke it, even thus injured as he was.

_Pen._ Curse on all wealth and fortune! He--he is gone who only deserved all, and whose worth I know too late!

_Love._ [_To_ FRED.] Oh, ecstasy! Why was I angry at her rejoicing at my sorrow, when hers to me is such a perfect bliss? 'Tis barbarous not to discover myself.

_Fred._ [_To_ LOVE.] Do, and be used barbarously----But, madam, you must be composed. Your life, for ought I know, is at stake; for there is no such thing as accessories in murder; and it can be proved you knew of Lovemore's threatening to fight Bookwit. You must either take your trial yourself, or be Mr. Bookwit's witness.

_Pen._ I his witness! No, I'll swear anything to hang him.

_Fred._ Ah, madam, you must consider yourself, however----Pray, sir, read her indictment to her.

_Love._ [_Reading._] "That on the said third day of April the said Penelope, of the parish of St. Martin's-in-the-Fields, spinster, without fear before her eyes, but by the instigation of the devil, and through an evil pride of heart----"

_Pen._ 'Tis too true----[_Weeping._

_Love._ "Did contrive, abet, and consent to the death of John Lovemore, Esq., of the age of twenty-eight years, or thereabouts."

_Fred._ I can't hear the mention of him without tears. He was the sincerest friend.

_Love._ I think I have seen him. He was, I've heard, a man of honesty, but of something a disagreeable make.

_Pen._ Oh, sir, you never saw him if you think so----His person was as free as his mind was honest, nor had he imperfection, but his love of me. [_Weeps._

_Love._ [_To_ FRED.] I tremble I shall disoblige her too much.

_Fred._ [_To_ LOVE.] You shan't discover yourself, you shall go through her soul, now 'tis moved on our side. Win her now, or see my face no more; I'll not have my wine spoiled every night with your recitals of love, and asking advice, though you never mean to take it, like a true lover.

_Pen._ When did that best of men expire, good Mr. Frederick?

_Fred._ This morning. But should I speak the manner? With a faint, dying voice he called me to him. I went in tenderness to take my long farewell. He, in a last effort of nature, pressed me to his breast, and, with the softest accent, sighed in death--"Penelope."

_Pen._ Oh, the too generous man! Ungrateful I! Curses on him first flattered with his tongue, On her that first dissembled in her silence---- What miseries have they entailed on life To bring in fraud and diffidence of love! Simplicity's the dress of honest passion, Then why our arts, why to a man enamoured, That at her feet effuses all his soul, Must woman cold appear, false to herself and him?

_Fred._ [_To_ LOVE.] Do you see there? You'd have spoke before she considered that.

_Pen._ Oh, could I see him now, to press his livid lips, And call him back to life with my complaints, His eyes would glare upon my guilt with horror, That used to gloat and melt in love before me. Let mine for ever then be shut to joy, To all that's bright and valuable in man! I'll to his sacred ashes be a wife, And to his memory devote my life. [_Exit._

_Love._ This is worth dying for indeed. I'll follow her.

_Fred._ No, you shan't; let her go in, throw herself upon her bed, and hug, and call her pillow "Lovemore." 'Tis but what you've done a thousand times for her.

_Love._ That's true too.

_Fred._ Let her contemplate on the mischief of her vanity. She shall lament till her glass is of our side--till its pretty eyes be all blubbered; its heart must heave and pant with perfect anguish before 'twill feel the sorrow of another's. Don't you know, pride, scorn, affectation, and a whole train of ills must be sobbed away before a great beauty's mortified to purpose?

_Enter_ SERVANT.

_Serv._ Old Mr. Bookwit enquires for you here, Mr. Frederick.

_Fred._ Pray, let him come up.

_Enter_ OLD BOOKWIT.

_Love._ What's the matter? You seem more discomposed than you were at Mr. Frederick's. Something still new?

_O. Book._ I saw the boy a-coming in a chair; he looks so languid and distressed, poor lad! He has all his mother's softness, by nature of the sweetest disposition. Oh, gentlemen, you know not what it is to be a father! To see my only child in that condition----My grief quickened at the sight of him. I thought I could have patience till I saw him.

_Enter_ SERVANT.

_Serv._ There are two or three in chairs desire admittance by appointment.

_O. Book._ 'Tis right, sir.

_Enter_ YOUNG BOOKWIT, LATINE, _and_ GAOLER.

Oh, my dear child! Oh, Tom! are all thy aged father's hopes, then, come to this, that he can't see thee, his only son, but guarded by a gaoler? Thy mother's happy that lived not to see this day. Is all the nurture that she gave thy infancy, the erudition she bequeathed thy youth, thus answered? Oh, my son! my son! rise and support thy father! I sink with tenderness, my child; come to my arms while thou art mine.

_Y. Book._ Oh, best of fathers! Let me not see your tears, Don't double my afflictions by your woe---- There's consolation when a friend laments us, but When a parent grieves, the anguish is too native, Too much our own to be called pity. Oh, sir, consider; I was born to die. 'Tis but expanding thought, and life is nothing. Ages and generations pass away, And with resistless force, like waves o'er waves, Roll down the irrevocable stream of time Into the insatiate ocean for ever----Thus we are gone. But the erroneous sense of man--'tis the lamented That's at rest, but the survivor mourns. All my sorrows vanish with that thought, But Heaven grant my aged father patience!

_O. Book._ Oh, child! [_Turning away._

_Y. Book._ Do not torment yourself, you shall promise not to grieve. What if they do upbraid you with my death? Consider, sir, in death that our relation ceases; Nor shall I want your care, or know your grief. It matters not whether by law, or nature, 'tis I die. What, won't my father hear me plead to him? Don't turn from me---- Yet don't look at me with your soul so full.

_O. Book._ Oh, my child! my child! I could hear thee ever. 'Twas that I loved thee that I turn away; To hear my son persuade me to resign him, I can't, I can't. The grief is insupportable.

_Y. Book._ You make a coward of me with your anguish. I grow an infant, scarce can weep with silence; But let me keep some decency in my distress.

_O. Book._ If we might be apart-- [_Looking at the company._ But that's too much to hope.

_Gaol._ No, no, we'll leave you to yourselves. [_Exeunt._

_O. Book._ I have too much upon me, child, to speak--and, indeed, have nothing to say, but to feed my eyes upon thee e'er we part for ever, if tears would let me. When you have slept in your cradle, I have waked for you--and was it to this end! Oh, child, you've broke your father's heart. [_Swoons._

_Y. Book._ Good Heav'n forbid it--guard him and protect him. He faints, he's cold, he's gone; [_Running to him._ He's gone, and with his last breath called me parricide. "You've broke your father's heart!" Oh, killing sound! I'm all contagion; to pity me is death: My griefs to all are mortal but myself. "You've broke your father's heart!" If I did so, Why thus serene in death, thou smiling clay? Why that calm aspect to thy murderer? Oh, big unutterable grief----merciful Heaven! I don't deserve this ease of tears to melt With penitence--Oh, sweet, sweet remorse; Now all my powers give way To my just sorrow, for the best of fathers. [_Aloud._ Thou venerable fountain of my life, Why don't I also die, derived from thee? Sure you are not gone--Is the way out of life Thus easy, which you so much feared in me? [_Takes him by the hand._ Why stay I after? But I deserve to stay, To feel the quick remembrance of my follies. Yet if my sighs, my tears, my anguish can atone----

_Re-enter_ FREDERICK, LOVEMORE, LATINE, GAOLER, VICTORIA, _and_ PENELOPE.

_Fred._ What is the matter? What----

_Y. Book._ Behold this sight! I am the guilty wretch--

_Fred._ Keep aside a little, sir, he only swoons, I hope. I think he breathes--yes, he returns. You must compose yourself.

_Lat._ Poor Bookwit! how utterly he seems distressed!

_O. Book._ I will be calm--resign to Heaven--and hear you patiently.

_Fred._ You, sir, his favourite servant, pray speak honestly the truth of what you know to this learned gentleman, who is counsel in this case.

_Y. Book._ Sir, he is not----

_Love._ Pray, sir, give the servant leave first.

_Lat._ Know, then, I am not what I seem, but a gentleman of a plentiful fortune. I am thus dressed to carry on such gay pursuits as should offer in this town. Not to detain you, Mr. Bookwit sent me late last night with a letter to one of these ladies. Coming from thence, as I crossed, I saw Lovemore in the Garden. He stopped me, and, after some questions concerning my message to this house, to which he did not like my answers, he struck me. We fought--I left him dead upon the spot; of which this gentleman is guiltless.

_O. Book._ How! was it you, then, that killed Mr. Lovemore?

_Lat._ 'Twas this unhappy hand gave him his death, but so provoked--

_Y. Book._ Who could believe that any pleasing passion Could touch a breast loaded with guilt like mine? But all my mind is seized with admiration Of thy stupendous friendship. What then-- Could'st thou hold thy innocent hand up at a bar With felons, to save thy friend? How shall I chide or praise thy brave imposture? Ah, sir, believe him not! He cannot bear the loss of me whom he o'ervalues; therefore with highest gallantry he offers a benefit which 'twere the meanest baseness to receive. But death's more welcome than a life so purchased.

_Lat._ We all know you can talk, and gild things as you please, but the lady's servant knows I was taken near the body when you----

_Y. Book._ Sir, do but hear me--[_Pushing away_ LAT.

_Lat._ I'll easily convince you--[_Pushing away_ BOOK.

_Y. Book._ Pray mind him not, his brain is touched--

_Lat._ I am the man, he was not near the place----

_Love._ I can hold out no longer.--Lovemore still lives to adore your noble friendship, and begs a share in't. Be not amazed! but let me grasp you both, who, in an age degenerate as this, have such transcendent virtue--

_Y. Book._ Oh, Lovemore! Lovemore! how shall I speak my joy at thy recovery-- I fail beneath the too ecstatic pleasure. What help has human nature from its sorrows, When our relief itself is such a burthen?

_O. Book._ Oh, the best burthen upon earth!--I beg your pardon, sir--I never was so taken with a man in my life at first sight. [_Kisses_ LOVE.] Let me be known to you too. [_To_ LAT.

_Lat._ Sir, you do me honour.

_O. Book._ But you, ladies, are the first cause of the many errors we have been in, and you only can extricate us with satisfaction. Such is the force of beauty. The wounds the sword gave this gentleman were slight, but you've transfixed a vital and a noble part--his heart. Had I known his pretences, I had not interposed for my son.

_Fred._ Come, madam, no more of the cruel--go on, Lovemore; o' my conscience, the man's afraid 'tis impudence to be alive again. You see him now, madam; now you may press his livid lips, and call him back to life with your complaints.

_Love._ I stand, methinks, on the brink of fate, in an ambiguous interval of life, and doubt to accept of being till you smile. In every human incident besides I am superior, and can choose or leave; But in minutest things that touch my love, My bosom's seized with anguish or with transport.

_Pen._ You've shown your passion to me with such honour that if I am confused, I know I should not be, to say I approve it; for I know no rules should make me insensible of generous usage. My person and my mind are yours for ever.

_Love._ Then doubts, and fears, and anxious cares be gone, All ye black thoughts that did corrode my breast; Here enter faith, and confidence, and love! Love that can't live with jealousy, but dwells With sacred marriage, truth, and mutual honour. I knew not where you would bestow your vows, But never doubted of your faith when given. [_Kissing her hand._

_O. Book._ You see, my son, how constancy's rewarded! You have from nature every quality To make you well become what fortune gave you; But neither wit nor beauty, wealth nor courage, Implicitly deserve the world's esteem; They're only in their application good. How could you fight a man you knew not why? You don't think that 'tis great merely to dare? 'Tis that a man is just he should be bold. Indeed you've erred.

_Lat._ You give my friend, methinks, too much compunction for a little levity in his actions--when he's too severe in his own reflections on 'em.

_Pen._ Well, Victoria, you see I take your advice at last in choice of Lovemore.

_Vict._ I congratulate your missing of the other.

_Pen._ I heartily believe you, my dear friend.

_O. Book._ But we best guide our actions by hopes of reward. Could but my son have such a glorious prospect as this fair one. [_To_ VICTORIA.] I doubt not but his future carriage would deserve her.

_Vict._ I believe I may safely promise to approve of all the truth he tells me.

_Y. Book._ You've promised, then, to like all I shall say.

_O. Book._ These unexpected good events deserve our celebration with some mirth and fiddles.

_Fred._ I foresaw this happy turn, therefore have prepared 'em. Call in the dancers.

_Song, by_ MR. LEVERIDGE.

I. The rolling years the joys restore, Which happy, happy Britain knew, When in a female age before Beauty the sword of justice drew.

II. Nymphs and fawns, and rural powers, Of crystal floods and shady bowers, No more shall here preside; The flowing wave and living green, Owe only to their present queen Their safety and their pride.

III. United air and pleasures bring, Of tender note and tuneful string, All your arts devoted are To move the innocent and fair. While they receive the pleasing wound, Echo repeats the dying sound.

_Y. Book._ Since such deserved misfortunes they must share, Who with gay falsehoods entertain the fair; Let all with this just maxim guide their youth, There is no gallantry in love but truth. [_Exeunt._

EPILOGUE.

Our too advent'rous author soared to-night Above the little praise, mirth to excite, And chose with pity to chastise delight. For laughter's a distorted passion, born Of sudden self-esteem and sudden scorn; Which, when 'tis o'er, the men in pleasure wise, Both him that moved it and themselves despise; While generous pity of a painted woe Makes us ourselves both more approve and know. What is that touch within which nature gave For man to man e'er fortune made a slave? Sure it descends from that dread Power alone, Who levels thunder from His awful throne, And shakes both worlds--yet hears the wretched groan. 'Tis what the ancient sage could ne'er define, Wondered--and called part human, part divine; 'Tis that pure joy which guardian angels know, When timely they assist their care below, When they the good protect, the ill oppose; 'Tis what our sovereign feels when she bestows, Which gives her glorious cause such high success, That only on the stage you see distress.

_THE TENDER HUSBAND:_

OR

_THE ACCOMPLISHED FOOLS._

"Oportet ut is qui audiat cogitet plura quam videat."[77] CICERO DE ORATORE.

Steele's third play, _The Tender Husband: or, the Accomplished Fools, a Comedy_, was given to Rich, of the Theatre Royal, in March, 1705, and was produced on April 23, when it ran for five nights, "with several entertainments of singing by Mrs. Tofts, and dancing"; and again in May and June. The profits were but small. The play was published by Tonson on the 9th of May. It was acted several times nearly every year between 1705 and 1736, and occasionally afterwards. In 1760, Garrick appeared as Sir Harry Gubbin, and in 1802, Charles Kemble and Mrs. Jordan acted in the piece. Mills (Clerimont, Sen.), Wilks (Capt. Clerimont), Estcourt (Pounce), Bullock (Sir Harry Gubbin), Pinkethman (Humphry Gubbin), Norris (Tipkin), Mrs. Powell (Aunt), and Mrs. Oldfield (Niece), were in the original cast. Steele was indebted for some ideas in the fourth Act to Molière's _Sicilien: ou, l'Amour Peintre_, and possibly to Cibber's _Careless Husband_, which had recently appeared. In No. 555 of the _Spectator_ he said that "many applauded strokes" in the piece were from Addison's hand. Fielding, Goldsmith, and Sheridan had Steele's play in view when they created the characters of Squire Western, Tony Lumpkin, and Lydia Languish. The phrase "accomplished fools" had been used by Steele in the _Lying Lover_ (p. 148).

_To_

MR. ADDISON.[78]

SIR,

You'll be surprised, in the midst of a daily and familiar conversation, with an address which bears so distant an air as a public dedication. But to put you out of the pain which I know this will give you, I assure you I do not design in it, what would be very needless, a panegyric on yourself, or what, perhaps, is very necessary, a defence of the play. In the one I should discover too much the concern of an author, in the other too little the freedom of a friend.

My purpose in this application is only to show the esteem I have for you, and that I look upon my intimacy with you as one of the most valuable enjoyments of my life. At the same time I hope I make the Town no ill compliment for their kind acceptance of this Comedy, in acknowledging that it has so far raised my opinion of it, as to make me think it no improper memorial of an inviolable friendship.

I should not offer it to you as such, had I not been very careful to avoid everything that might look ill-natured, immoral, or prejudicial to what the better part of mankind hold sacred and honourable.

Poetry, under such restraints, is an obliging service to human society; especially when it is used, like your admirable vein, to recommend more useful qualities in yourself, or immortalise characters truly heroic in others. I am here in danger of breaking my promise to you, therefore shall take the only opportunity that can offer itself of resisting my own inclinations, by complying with yours. I am,

SIR,

Your most faithful,

Humble Servant,

RICHARD STEELE.

PROLOGUE.

_Written by_ MR. ADDISON.

_Spoken by_ MR. WILKS.[79]

In the first rise and infancy of farce, When fools were many, and when plays were scarce, The raw, unpractised authors could, with ease, A young and unexperienced audience please; No single character had e'er been shown, But the whole herd of fops was all their own; Rich in originals, they set to view, In every piece, a coxcomb that was new.

But now our British theatre can boast Drolls of all kinds, a vast unthinking host! Fruitful of folly and of vice, it shows Cuckolds, and cits, and bawds, and pimps, and beaux; Rough-country knights are found of every shire, Of every fashion gentle fops appear; And punks of different characters we meet, As frequent on the stage as in the pit. Our modern wits are forced to pick and cull, And here and there by chance glean up a fool; Long ere they find the necessary spark, They search the Town and beat about the Park; To all his most frequented haunts resort, Oft dog him to the Ring,[80] and oft to Court; As love of pleasure or of place invites, And sometimes catch him taking snuff at White's.[81]

However, to do you right, the present age Breeds very hopeful monsters for the stage, That scorn the paths their dull forefathers trod, And won't be blockheads in the common road. Do but survey this crowded house to-night-- Here's still encouragement for those that write.

Our author, to divert his friends to-day, Stocks with variety of fools his play; And that there may be something gay and new, Two ladies errant has exposed to view; The first a damsel, travelled in romance, The t'other more refined--she comes from France. Rescue, like courteous knights, the nymph from danger, And kindly treat, like well-bred men, the stranger.

A SONG.

_Designed for the Fourth Act, but not set._

I. See, Britons, see, with awful eyes, Britannia from her seas arise! Ten thousand billows round me roar, While winds and waves engage, That break in froth upon my shore, And impotently rage. Such were the terrors which of late Surrounded my afflicted state; United fury thus was bent On my devoted seats, Till all the mighty force was spent In feeble swells, and empty threats.

II. But now, with rising glory crowned, My joys run high, they know no bound; Tides of unruly pleasure flow Through every swelling vein, New raptures in my bosom glow, And warm me up to youth again. Passing pomps my streets adorn; Captive spoils, in triumph borne, Standards of Gauls, in fight subdued, Colours in hostile blood embrued, Ensigns of tyrannic might, Foes to equity and right, In courts of British justice wave on high, Sacred to law and liberty. My crowded theatres repeat, In songs of triumph, the defeat. Did ever joyful mother see So bright, so brave a progeny! Daughters with so much beauty crowned, Or sons for valour so renowned!

III. But oh, I gaze and seek in vain To find, amidst this warlike train, My absent sons, that used to grace With decent pride this joyous place: Unhappy youths! how do my sorrows rise, Swell my breast, and melt my eyes, While I your mighty loss deplore? Wild, and raging with distress I mourn, I mourn my own success, And boast my victories no more. Unhappy youths! far from their native sky, On Danube's banks interred they lie. Germania, give me back my slain, Give me my slaughtered sons again. Was it for this they ranged so far, To free thee from oppressive war? Germania, &c.

IV. Tears of sorrow while I shed O'er the manes of my dead, Lasting altars let me raise To my living heroes' praise; Heaven give them a longer stay, As glorious actions to display, Or perish on as great a day.

_DRAMATIS PERSONÆ._

Sir HARRY GUBBIN, brother-in-law to Mr. TIPKIN.

HUMPHRY GUBBIN, son of Sir HARRY GUBBIN, and suitor to BIDDY TIPKIN, his cousin.

Mr. TIPKIN, a banker, BIDDY TIPKIN'S uncle.

CLERIMONT, SEN.

Capt. CLERIMONT, brother of CLERIMONT, SEN.

Mr. POUNCE, a lawyer, FAINLOVE'S brother.

Mrs. CLERIMONT.

AUNT (Mrs. TIPKIN).

NIECE (BIDDY TIPKIN), Mr. TIPKIN'S niece.

FAINLOVE, mistress to CLERIMONT, SEN.

JENNY, maid to Mrs. CLERIMONT.

SCENE.--LONDON.

_THE TENDER HUSBAND: OR, THE ACCOMPLISHED FOOLS._

ACT THE FIRST.