SCENE IV.--HORNER'S _Lodging. A table, banquet, and bottles.

_Enter_ HORNER, Lady FIDGET, Mrs. DAINTY FIDGET, _and_ Mrs. SQUEAMISH.

_Horn._ A pox! they are come too soon--before I have sent back my new mistress. All that I have now to do is to lock her in, that they may not see her. [_Aside._

_L. Fid._ That we may be sure of our welcome, we have brought our entertainment with us, and are resolved to treat thee, dear toad.

_Mrs. Dain._ And that we may be merry to purpose, have left Sir Jasper and my old Lady Squeamish, quarrelling at home at backgammon.

_Mrs. Squeam._ Therefore let us make use of our time, lest they should chance to interrupt us.

_L. Fid._ Let us sit then.

_Horn._ First, that you may be private, let me lock this door and that, and I'll wait upon you presently.

_L. Fid._ No, sir, shut 'em only, and your lips for ever; for we must trust you as much as our women.

_Horn._ You know all vanity's killed in me; I have no occasion for talking.

_L. Fid._ Now, ladies, supposing we had drank each of us our two bottles, let us speak the truth of our hearts.

_Mrs. Dain. and Mrs. Squeam._ Agreed.

_L. Fid._ By this brimmer, for truth is nowhere else to be found--[_Aside to_ HORNER.] not in thy heart, false man!

_Horn._ You have found me a true man, I'm sure. [_Aside to_ Lady FIDGET.

_L. Fid._ [_Aside to_ HORNER.] Not every way.--But let us sit and be merry. [_Sings._

Why should our damned tyrants oblige us to live On the pittance of pleasure which they only give? We must not rejoice With wine and with noise: In vain we must wake in a dull bed alone, Whilst to our warm rival the bottle they're gone. Then lay aside charms, And take up these arms.[84] 'Tis wine only gives 'em their courage and wit; Because we live sober, to men we submit. If for beauties you'd pass, Take a lick of the glass, 'Twill mend your complexions, and when they are gone, The best red we have is the red of the grape: Then, sisters, lay't on, And damn a good shape.

_Mrs. Fain._ Dear brimmer! Well, in token of our openness and plain-dealing, let us throw our masks over our heads.

_Horn._ So, 'twill come to the glasses anon. [_Aside._

_Mrs. Squeam._ Lovely brimmer! let me enjoy him first.

_L. Fid._ No, I never part with a gallant till I've tried him. Dear brimmer! that makest our husbands short-sighted.

_Mrs. Dain._ And our bashful gallants bold.

_Mrs. Squeam._ And, for want of a gallant, the butler lovely in our eyes.--Drink, eunuch.

_L. Fid._ Drink, thou representative of a husband.--Damn a husband!

_Mrs. Dain._ And, as it were a husband, an old keeper.

_Mrs. Squeam._ And an old grandmother.

_Horn._ And an English bawd, and a French surgeon.

_L. Fid._ Ay, we have all reason to curse 'em.

_Horn._ For my sake, ladies?

_L. Fid._ No, for our own; for the first spoils all young gallants' industry.

_Mrs. Dain._ And the other's art makes 'em bold only with common women.

_Mrs. Squeam._ And rather run the hazard of the vile distemper amongst them, than of a denial amongst us.

_Mrs. Dain._ The filthy toads choose mistresses now as they do stuffs, for having been fancied and worn by others.

_Mrs. Squeam._ For being common and cheap.

_L. Fid._ Whilst women of quality, like the richest stuffs, lie untumbled, and unasked for.

_Horn._ Ay, neat, and cheap, and new, often they think best.

_Mrs. Dain._ No, sir, the beasts will be known by a mistress longer than by a suit.

_Mrs. Squeam._ And 'tis not for cheapness neither.

_L. Fid._ No; for the vain fops will take up druggets, and embroider 'em. But I wonder at the depraved appetites of witty men; they use to be out of the common road, and hate imitation. Pray tell me, beast, when you were a man, why you rather chose to club with a multitude in a common house for an entertainment, than to be the only guest at a good table.

_Horn._ Why, faith, ceremony and expectation are unsufferable to those that are sharp bent. People always eat with the best stomach at an ordinary, where every man is snatching for the best bit.

_L. Fid._ Though he get a cut over the fingers.--But I have heard, that people eat most heartily of another man's meat, that is, what they do not pay for.

_Horn._ When they are sure of their welcome and freedom; for ceremony in love and eating is as ridiculous as in fighting: falling on briskly is all should be done on those occasions.

_L. Fid._ Well then, let me tell you, sir, there is nowhere more freedom than in our houses; and we take freedom from a young person as a sign of good breeding; and a person may be as free as he pleases with us, as frolic, as gamesome, as wild as he will.

_Horn._ Han't I heard you all declaim against wild men?

_L. Fid._ Yes; but for all that, we think wildness in a man as desirable a quality as in a duck or rabbit: a tame man! foh!

_Horn._ I know not, but your reputations frightened me as much as your faces invited me.

_L. Fid._ Our reputation! Lord, why should you not think that we women make use of our reputation, as you men of yours, only to deceive the world with less suspicion? Our virtue is like the statesman's religion, the quaker's word, the gamester's oath, and the great man's honour; but to cheat those that trust us.

_Mrs. Squeam._ And that demureness, coyness, and modesty, that you see in our faces in the boxes at plays, is as much a sign of a kind woman, as a vizard-mask in the pit.

_Mrs. Dain._ For, I assure you, women are least masked when they have the velvet vizard on.

_L. Fid._ You would have found us modest women in our denials only.

_Mrs. Squeam._ Our bashfulness is only the reflection of the men's.

_Mrs. Dain._ We blush when they are shamefaced.

_Horn._ I beg your pardon, ladies, I was deceived in you devilishly. But why that mighty pretence to honour?

_L. Fid._ We have told you; but sometimes 'twas for the same reason you men pretend business often, to avoid ill company, to enjoy the better and more privately those you love.

_Horn._ But why would you ne'er give a friend a wink then?

_L. Fid._ Faith, your reputation frightened us, as much as ours did you, you were so notoriously lewd.

_Horn._ And you so seemingly honest.

_L. Fid._ Was that all that deterred you?

_Horn._ And so expensive--you allow freedom, you say.

_L. Fid._ Ay, ay.

_Horn._ That I was afraid of losing my little money, as well as my little time, both which my other pleasures required.

_L. Fid._ Money! foh! you talk like a little fellow now: do such as we expect money?

_Horn._ I beg your pardon, madam, I must confess, I have heard that great ladies, like great merchants, set but the higher prices upon what they have, because they are not in necessity of taking the first offer.

_Mrs. Dain._ Such as we make sale of our hearts?

_Mrs. Squeam._ We bribed for our love? foh!

_Horn._ With your pardon ladies, I know, like great men in offices, you seem to exact flattery and attendance only from your followers; but you have receivers about you, and such fees to pay, a man is afraid to pass your grants. Besides, we must let you win at cards, or we lose your hearts; and if you make an assignation, 'tis at a goldsmith's, jeweller's, or china-house; where for your honour you deposit to him, he must pawn his to the punctual cit, and so paying for what you take up, pays for what he takes up.

_Mrs. Dain._ Would you not have us assured of our gallants' love?

_Mrs. Squeam._ For love is better known by liberality than by jealousy.

_L. Fid._ For one may be dissembled, the other not.--[_Aside._] But my jealousy can be no longer dissembled, and they are telling ripe.--[_Aloud._]--Come, here's to our gallants in waiting, whom we must name, and I'll begin. This is my false rogue. [_Claps him on the back._

_Mrs. Squeam._ How!

_Horn._ So, all will out now. [_Aside._

_Mrs. Squeam._ Did you not tell me, 'twas for my sake only you reported yourself no man? [_Aside to_ HORNER.

_Mrs. Dain._ Oh, wretch! did you not swear to me, 'twas for my love and honour you passed for that thing you do? [_Aside to_ HORNER.

_Horn._ So, so.

_L. Fid._ Come, speak, ladies: this is my false villain.

_Mrs. Squeam._ And mine too.

_Mrs. Dain._ And mine.

_Horn._ Well then, you are all three my false rogues too, and there's an end on't.

_L. Fid._ Well then, there's no remedy; sister sharers, let us not fall out, but have a care of our honour. Though we get no presents, no jewels of him, we are savers of our honour, the jewel of most value and use, which shines yet to the world unsuspected, though it be counterfeit.

_Horn._ Nay, and is e'en as good as if it were true, provided the world think so; for honour, like beauty now, only depends on the opinion of others.

_L. Fid._ Well, Harry Common, I hope you can be true to three. Swear; but 'tis to no purpose to require your oath, for you are as often forsworn as you swear to new women.

_Horn._ Come, faith, madam, let us e'en pardon one another; for all the difference I find betwixt we men and you women, we forswear ourselves at the beginning of an amour, you as long as it lasts.

_Enter_ Sir JASPER FIDGET, _and_ Old Lady SQUEAMISH.

_Sir Jasp._ Oh, my Lady Fidget, was this your cunning, to come to Mr. Horner without me? but you have been nowhere else, I hope.

_L. Fid._ No, Sir Jasper.

_L. Squeam._ And you came straight hither, Biddy?

_Mrs. Squeam._ Yes, indeed, lady grandmother.

_Sir Jasp._ 'Tis well, 'tis well; I knew when once they were thoroughly acquainted with poor Horner, they'd ne'er be from him: you may let her masquerade it with my wife and Horner, and I warrant her reputation safe.

_Enter_ Boy.

_Boy._ O, sir, here's the gentleman come, whom you bid me not suffer to come up, without giving you notice, with a lady too, and other gentlemen.

_Horn._ Do you all go in there, whilst I send 'em away; and, boy, do you desire 'em to stay below till I come, which shall be immediately. [_Exeunt_ Sir JASPER FIDGET, Lady FIDGET, Lady SQUEAMISH, Mrs. SQUEAMISH, _and_ Mrs. DAINTY FIDGET.

_Boy._ Yes, sir. [_Exit._

[_Exit_ HORNER _at the other door, and returns with_ Mrs. PINCHWIFE.

_Horn._ You would not take my advice, to be gone home before your husband came back, he'll now discover all; yet pray, my dearest, be persuaded to go home, and leave the rest to my management; I'll let you down the back way.

_Mrs. Pinch._ I don't know the way home, so I don't.

_Horn._ My man shall wait upon you.

_Mrs. Pinch._ No, don't you believe that I'll go at all; what, are you weary of me already?

_Horn._ No, my life, 'tis that I may love you long, 'tis to secure my love, and your reputation with your husband; he'll never receive you again else.

_Mrs. Pinch._ What care I? d'ye think to frighten me with that? I don't intend to go to him again; you shall be my husband now.

_Horn._ I cannot be your husband, dearest, since you are married to him.

_Mrs. Pinch._ O, would you make me believe that? Don't I see every day at London here, women leave their first husbands, and go and live with other men as their wives? pish, pshaw! you'd make me angry, but that I love you so mainly.

_Horn._ So, they are coming up--In again, in, I hear 'em.--[_Exit_ Mrs. PINCHWIFE.] Well, a silly mistress is like a weak place, soon got, soon lost, a man has scarce time for plunder; she betrays her husband first to her gallant, and then her gallant to her husband.

_Enter_ PINCHWIFE, ALITHEA, HARCOURT, SPARKISH, LUCY, _and a_ Parson.

_Pinch._ Come, madam, 'tis not the sudden change of your dress, the confidence of your asseverations, and your false witness there, shall persuade me I did not bring you hither just now; here's my witness, who cannot deny it, since you must be confronted.--Mr. Horner, did not I bring this lady to you just now?

_Horn._ Now must I wrong one woman for another's sake,--but that's no new thing with me, for in these cases I am still on the criminal's side against the innocent. [_Aside._

_Alith._ Pray speak, sir.

_Horn._ It must be so. I must be impudent, and try my luck; impudence uses to be too hard for truth. [_Aside._

_Pinch._ What, you are studying an evasion or excuse for her! Speak, sir.

_Horn._ No, faith, I am something backward only to speak in women's affairs or disputes.

_Pinch._ She bids you speak.

_Alith._ Ay, pray, sir, do, pray satisfy him.

_Horn._ Then truly, you did bring that lady to me just now.

_Pinch._ O ho!

_Alith._ How, sir?

_Har._ How, Horner?

_Alith._ What mean you, sir? I always took you for a man of honour.

_Horn._ Ay, so much a man of honour, that I must save my mistress, I thank you, come what will on't. [_Aside._

_Spark._ So, if I had had her, she'd have made me believe the moon had been made of a Christmas pie.

_Lucy._ Now could I speak, if I durst, and solve the riddle, who am the author of it. [_Aside._

_Alith._ O unfortunate woman! A combination against my honour! which most concerns me now, because you share in my disgrace, sir, and it is your censure, which I must now suffer, that troubles me, not theirs.

_Har._ Madam, then have no trouble, you shall now see 'tis possible for me to love too, without being jealous; I will not only believe your innocence myself, but make all the world believe it.--[_Aside to_ HORNER.] Horner, I must now be concerned for this lady's honour.

_Horn._ And I must be concerned for a lady's honour too.

_Har._ This lady has her honour, and I will protect it.

_Horn._ My lady has not her honour, but has given it me to keep, and I will preserve it.

_Har._ I understand you not.

_Horn._ I would not have you.

_Mrs. Pinch._ What's the matter with 'em all? [_Peeping in behind._

_Pinch._ Come, come, Mr. Horner, no more disputing; here's the parson, I brought him not in vain.

_Har._ No, sir, I'll employ him, if this lady please.

_Pinch._ How! what d'ye mean?

_Spark._ Ay, what does he mean?

_Horn._ Why, I have resigned your sister to him, he has my consent.

_Pinch._ But he has not mine, sir; a woman's injured honour, no more than a man's, can be repaired or satisfied by any but him that first wronged it; and you shall marry her presently, or--[_Lays his hand on his sword._

_Re-enter_ Mrs. PINCHWIFE.

_Mrs. Pinch._ O Lord, they'll kill poor Mr. Horner! besides, he shan't marry her whilst I stand by, and look on; I'll not lose my second husband so.

_Pinch._ What do I see?

_Alith._ My sister in my clothes!

_Spark._ Ha!

_Mrs. Pinch._ Nay, pray now don't quarrel about finding work for the parson, he shall marry me to Mr. Horner; or now, I believe, you have enough of me. [_To_ PINCHWIFE.

_Horn._ Damned, damned loving changeling! [_Aside._

_Mrs. Pinch._ Pray, sister, pardon me for telling so many lies of you.

_Horn._ I suppose the riddle is plain now.

_Lucy._ No, that must be my work.--Good sir, hear me. [_Kneels to_ PINCHWIFE, _who stands doggedly with his hat over his eyes._

_Pinch._ I will never hear woman again, but make 'em all silent thus--[_Offers to draw upon his_ Wife.

_Horn._ No, that must not be.

_Pinch._ You then shall go first, 'tis all one to me. [_Offers to draw on_ HORNER, _but is stopped by_ HARCOURT.

_Har._ Hold!

_Re-enter_ Sir JASPER FIDGET, Lady FIDGET, Lady SQUEAMISH, Mrs. DAINTY FIDGET, _and_ Mrs. SQUEAMISH.

_Sir Jasp._ What's the matter? what's the matter? pray, what's the matter, sir? I beseech you communicate, sir.

_Pinch._ Why, my wife has communicated, sir, as your wife may have done too, sir, if she knows him, sir.

_Sir Jasp._ Pshaw, with him! ha! ha! he!

_Pinch._ D'ye mock me, sir? a cuckold is a kind of a wild beast; have a care, sir.

_Sir Jasp._ No, sure, you mock me, sir. He cuckold you! it can't be, ha! ha! he! why, I'll tell you, sir--[_Offers to whisper._

_Pinch._ I tell you again, he has whored my wife, and yours too, if he knows her, and all the women he comes near; 'tis not his dissembling, his hypocrisy, can wheedle me.

_Sir Jasp._ How! does he dissemble? is he a hypocrite? Nay, then--how--wife--sister, is he a hypocrite?

_L. Squeam._ A hypocrite! a dissembler! Speak, young harlotry, speak, how?

_Sir Jasp._ Nay, then--O my head too!--O thou libidinous lady!

_L. Squeam._ O thou harloting harlotry! hast thou done't then?

_Sir Jasp._ Speak, good Horner, art thou a dissembler, a rogue? hast thou--

_Horn._ So!

_Lucy._ I'll fetch you off, and her too, if she will but hold her tongue. [_Apart to_ HORNER.

_Horn._ Canst thou? I'll give thee--[_Apart to_ LUCY.

_Lucy. [To_ PINCHWIFE.] Pray have but patience to hear me, sir, who am the unfortunate cause of all this confusion. Your wife is innocent, I only culpable; for I put her upon telling you all these lies concerning my mistress, in order to the breaking off the match between Mr. Sparkish and her, to make way for Mr. Harcourt.

_Spark._ Did you so, eternal rotten tooth? Then, it seems, my mistress was not false to me, I was only deceived by you. Brother, that should have been, now man of conduct, who is a frank person now, to bring your wife to her lover, ha?

_Lucy._ I assure you, sir, she came not to Mr. Horner out of love, for she loves him no more--

_Mrs. Pinch._ Hold, I told lies for you, but you shall tell none for me, for I do love Mr. Horner with all my soul, and nobody shall say me nay; pray, don't you go to make poor Mr. Horner believe to the contrary; 'tis spitefully done of you, I'm sure.

_Horn._ Peace, dear idiot. [_Aside to_ Mrs. PINCHWIFE.

_Mrs. Pinch._ Nay, I will not peace.

_Pinch._ Not till I make you.

_Enter_ DORILANT _and_ Quack.

_Dor._ Horner, your servant; I am the doctor's guest, he must excuse our intrusion.

_Quack._ But what's the matter, gentlemen? for Heaven's sake, what's the matter?

_Horn._ Oh, 'tis well you are come. 'Tis a censorious world we live in; you may have brought me a reprieve, or else I had died for a crime I never committed, and these innocent ladies had suffered with me; therefore, pray satisfy these worthy, honourable, jealous gentlemen--that--[_Whispers._

_Quack._ O, I understand you, is that all?--Sir Jasper, by Heavens, and upon the word of a physician, sir--[_Whispers to_ Sir JASPER.

_Sir Jasp._ Nay, I do believe you truly.--Pardon me, my virtuous lady, and dear of honour.

_L. Squeam._ What, then all's right again?

_Sir Jasp._ Ay, ay, and now let us satisfy him too. [_They whisper with_ PINCHWIFE.

_Pinch._ An eunuch! Pray, no fooling with me.

_Quack._ I'll bring half the chirurgeons in town to swear it.

_Pinch._ They!--they'll swear a man that bled to death through his wounds, died of an apoplexy.

_Quack._ Pray, hear me, sir--why, all the town has heard the report of him.

_Pinch._ But does all the town believe it?

_Quack._ Pray, inquire a little, and first of all these.

_Pinch._ I'm sure when I left the town, he was the lewdest fellow in't.

_Quack._ I tell you, sir, he has been in France since; pray, ask but these ladies and gentlemen, your friend Mr. Dorilant. Gentlemen and ladies, han't you all heard the late sad report of poor Mr. Horner?

_All the Ladies._ Ay, ay, ay.

_Dor._ Why, thou jealous fool, dost thou doubt it? he's an arrant French capon.

_Mrs. Pinch._ 'Tis false, sir, you shall not disparage poor Mr. Horner, for to my certain knowledge--

_Lucy._ O, hold!

_Mrs. Squeam._ Stop her mouth! [_Aside to_ LUCY.

_L. Fid._ Upon my honour, sir, 'tis as true--[_To_ PINCHWIFE.

_Mrs. Dain._ D'ye think we would have been seen in his company?

_Mrs. Squeam._ Trust our unspotted reputations with him?

_L. Fid._ This you get, and we too, by trusting your secret to a fool. [_Aside to_ HORNER.

_Horn._ Peace, madam.--[_Aside to_ Quack.] Well, doctor, is not this a good design, that carries a man on unsuspected, and brings him off safe?

_Pinch._ Well, if this were true--but my wife--[_Aside._

[DORILANT _whispers with_ Mrs. PINCHWIFE.

_Alith._ Come, brother, your wife is yet innocent, you see; but have a care of too strong an imagination, lest, like an over-concerned timorous gamester, by fancying an unlucky cast, it should come. Women and fortune are truest still to those that trust 'em.

_Lucy._ And any wild thing grows but the more fierce and hungry for being kept up, and more dangerous to the keeper.

_Alith._ There's doctrine for all husbands, Mr. Harcourt.

_Har._ I edify, madam, so much, that I am impatient till I am one.

_Dor._ And I edify so much by example, I will never be one.

_Spark._ And because I will not disparage my parts, I'll ne'er be one.

_Horn._ And I, alas! can't be one.

_Pinch._ But I must be one--against my will to a country wife, with a country murrain to me!

_Mrs. Pinch._ And I must be a country wife still too, I find; for I can't, like a city one, be rid of my musty husband, and do what I list. [_Aside._

_Horn._ Now, sir, I must pronounce your wife innocent, though I blush whilst I do it; and I am the only man by her now exposed to shame, which I will straight drown in wine, as you shall your suspicion; and the ladies' troubles we'll divert with a ballad.--Doctor, where are your maskers?

_Lucy._ Indeed, she's innocent, sir, I am her witness, and her end of coming out was but to see her sister's wedding; and what she has said to your face of her love to Mr. Horner, was but the usual innocent revenge on a husband's jealousy;--was it not, madam, speak?

_Mrs. Pinch._ [_Aside to_ LUCY _and_ HORNER.] Since you'll have me tell more lies--[_Aloud._] Yes, indeed, bud.

_Pinch._

For my own sake fain I would all believe; Cuckolds, like lovers, should themselves deceive. But--[_Sighs_ His honour is least safe (too late I find) Who trusts it with a foolish wife or friend.

_A Dance of Cuckolds._

_Horn._

Vain fops but court and dress, and keep a pother, To pass for women's men with one another; But he who aims by women to be prized, First by the men, you see, must be despised.

[_Exeunt._

EPILOGUE.

SPOKEN BY MRS. KNEP.[85]

Now you the vigorous, who daily here O'er vizard-mask in public domineer, And what you'd do to her, if in place where; Nay, have the confidence to cry, "Come out!" Yet when she says, "Lead on!" you are not stout; But to your well-dressed brother straight turn round, And cry "Pox on her, Ned, she can't be sound!" Then slink away, a fresh one to engage, With so much seeming heat and loving rage, You'd frighten listening actress on the stage; Till she at last has seen you huffing come, And talk of keeping in the tiring-room, Yet cannot be provoked to lead her home. Next, you Falstaffs of fifty, who beset Your buckram maidenheads, which your friends get; And whilst to them you of achievements boast, They share the booty, and laugh at your cost. In fine, you essenced boys, both old and young, Who would be thought so eager, brisk, and strong, Yet do the ladies, not their husbands wrong; Whose purses for your manhood make excuse, And keep your Flanders mares for show not use; Encouraged by our woman's man to-day, A Horner's part may vainly think to play; And may intrigues so bashfully disown, That they may doubted be by few or none; May kiss the cards at picquet, ombre, loo, And so be taught to kiss the lady too; But, gallants, have a care, faith, what you do. The world, which to no man his due will give, You by experience know you can deceive, And men may still believe you vigorous, But then we women--there's no cozening us.

_THE PLAIN DEALER._

Ridiculum acri Fortius et melius magnas plerumque secat res.[86]--HORAT.

According to Wycherley's own statement _The Plain Dealer_ was written when the author was twenty-five years of age--_i.e._, in the year 1665-6.[87] Its first performance on the stage cannot have taken place later than the spring of 1674, as there is an interesting allusion to it in the preface to Dryden's _State of Innocence_, which was registered at Stationers' Hall, April 17, 1674. Dryden writes in terms of noble eulogy: "The author of _The Plain Dealer_, whom I am proud to call my friend, has obliged all honest and virtuous men by one of the most bold, most general, and most useful satires, which has ever been presented on the English theatre." _The Plain Dealer_ was brought forward by the King's Company, probably, like _The Country Wife_, at the house in Lincoln's Inn Fields, as the new theatre, in Drury Lane, was not opened until March 26 of that year. It was published three years later, in 1677, the title-page bearing the _imprimatur_--"Licensed Jan. 9, 1676, Roger L'Estrange." The license, of course, was for printing, not for acting; the date, in new style, would be 1677.

We shall have, I think, little difficulty in accepting Wycherley's statement as to the year in which this play was written, if we suppose, as would almost certainly be the case, that it was revised and altered before its production on the stage. The critique on _The Country Wife_, in particular, cannot have been written earlier than 1672 or 1673, in one of which years that comedy was first acted.

Of our author's four comedies _The Plain Dealer_ is, questionless, the most powerful. From the mock dedication to the epilogue "the satire, wit, and strength, of manly Wycherley"[88] are everywhere conspicuous and triumphant. The main purport of the plot, as well as the particular design of certain scenes, is borrowed from _Le Misanthrope_ of Molière, but it is almost a truism that the most original writers are frequently the most extensive plagiarists, and Wycherley has so overlaid his appropriations with the colouring of his own brilliant individuality, that his play appears almost equally a masterpiece of originality as of ingenuity. It is scarcely too much to say that in _The Plain Dealer_ we are conscious of a fertility of invention, a richness of wit and satire, which make even _Le Misanthrope_ seem tame in comparison. Voltaire has justly contrasted the two plays. "All Wycherley's strokes," he writes, "are stronger and bolder than those of our _Misanthrope_, but then they are less delicate, and the Rules of Decorum are not so well observed in this Play."[89]

The scene in the second act, between Olivia, her cousin, and the two "pretty fellows," Novel and Plausible, was suggested by a dialogue between Célimène and her admirers, in the second act of _Le Misanthrope_, but the detail is almost entirely Wycherley's own, and is enlivened with such diverting antitheses and such brilliant fancy that, perhaps, few scenes more masterly are to be found in the entire range of English comedy from the time of the Restoration downwards. In this scene occurs the critique upon _The Country Wife_, of which the hint was taken from Molière's _Critique de l'Ecole des Femmes_. It is here introduced with great felicity, and the contrast between the affected prudery of the vicious Olivia and the simple candour of the truly modest Eliza is both just and edifying. Again, the discovery by Novel and Plausible of the duplicity of Olivia, by means of an exchange of letters, is borrowed from the _dénouement_ of _Le Misanthrope_; but the scene in which it occurs owes little to Molière beyond the incident; and the humorous device of making each letter, _mutato nomine_, the exact counterpart of the other, belongs to Wycherley alone. One or two more particular coincidences between _The Plain Dealer_ and _Le Misanthrope_ will be pointed out in the notes.

The admirably conceived character of the Widow Blackacre has been described as a copy of that of the Countess in Racine's comedy, _Les Plaideurs_, surely, in the first instance, by one of those critics with whom "most authors steal their works, or buy." There is a litigious old woman in _Les Plaideurs_, there is a litigious old woman in _The Plain Dealer_; and here the likeness begins and ends.[90] Voltaire calls the Widow Blackacre "the most comical character that was ever brought upon the stage." Lastly, although Fidelia is imitated from Shakespeare's Viola, and although the imitation is immeasurably and at all points inferior to the original, it must be admitted, nevertheless, that she fills her place in the play with perfect propriety, and is even drawn with some not inconsiderable degree of sweetness and pathos.

TO MY LADY B----.[91]

Madam,--

Though I never had the honour to receive a favour from you, nay, or be known to you, I take the confidence of an author to write to you a _billet-doux_ dedicatory;--which is no new thing. For by most dedications it appears that authors, though they praise their patrons from top to toe, and seem to turn 'em inside out, know 'em as little as sometimes their patrons their books, though they read them out; and if the poetical daubers did not write the name of the man or woman on top of the picture, 'twere impossible to guess whose it were. But you, madam, without the help of a poet, have made yourself known and famous in the world; and because you do not want it, are therefore most worthy of an epistle dedicatory. And this play claims naturally your protection, since it has lost its reputation with the ladies of stricter lives in the playhouse; and, you know, when men's endeavours are discountenanced and refused by the nice coy women of honour, they come to you:--to you, the great and noble patroness of rejected and bashful men (of which number I profess myself to be one, though a poet, a dedicating poet), to you, I say, madam, who have as discerning a judgment, in what's obscene or not, as any quick-sighted civil person of 'em all, and can make as much of a double-meaning saying as the best of 'em; yet would not, as some do, make nonsense of a poet's jest, rather than not make it bawdy; by which they show, they as little value wit in a play as in a lover, provided they can bring t'other thing about. Their sense, indeed, lies all one way, and therefore are only for that in a poet, which is moving, as they say. But what do they mean by that word "moving?" Well, I must not put 'em to the blush, since I find I can do't. In short, madam, you would not be one of those who ravish a poet's innocent words, and make 'em guilty of their own naughtiness (as 'tis termed) in spite of his teeth. Nay, nothing is secure from the power of their imaginations, no, not their husbands, whom they cuckold with themselves, by thinking of other men; and so make the lawful matrimonial embraces adultery, wrong husbands and poets in thought and word, to keep their own reputations. But your ladyship's justice, I know, would think a woman's arraigning and damning a poet for her own obscenity like her crying out a rape, and hanging a man for giving her pleasure, only that she might be thought not to consent to't; and so to vindicate her honour, forfeits her modesty. But you, madam, have too much modesty to pretend to't, though you have as much to say for your modesty as many a nicer she: for you never were seen at this play, no, not the first day; and 'tis no matter what people's lives have been, they are unquestionably modest who frequent not this play. For, as Mr. Bayes says of his, "That it is the only touchstone of men's wit and understanding;" mine is, it seems, the only touchstone of women's virtue and modesty. But hold, that touchstone is equivocal, and, by the strength of a lady's imagination, may become something that is not civil: but your ladyship, I know, scorns to misapply a touchstone.

And, madam, though you have not seen this play, I hope (like other nice ladies) you will the rather read it. Yet, lest the chambermaid or page should not be trusted, and their indulgence could gain no further admittance for it than to their ladies' lobbies or outward rooms, take it into your care and protection; for by your recommendation and procurement, it may have the honour to get into their closets; for what they renounce in public, often entertains 'em there, with your help especially. In fine, madam, for these and many other reasons, you are the fittest patroness or judge of this play; for you show no partiality to this or that author. For from some many ladies will take a broad jest as cheerfully as from the watermen, and sit at some downright filthy plays (as they call 'em) as well satisfied, and as still, as a poet could wish 'em elsewhere. Therefore it must be the doubtful obscenity of my play alone they take exceptions at, because it is too bashful for 'em: and, indeed, most women hate men for attempting by halves on their chastity; and bawdy, I find, like satire, should be home, not to have it taken notice of. But, now I mention satire, some there are who say, "'Tis the plain-dealing of the play, not the obscenity; 'tis taking off the ladies' masks, not offering at their petticoats, which offends 'em:"--and generally they are not the handsomest, or most innocent, who are the most angry at their being discovered:--

"Nihil est audacius illis Deprensis; iram atque animos a crimine sumunt."[92]

Pardon, madam, the quotation; for a dedication can no more be without ends of Latin, than flattery: and 'tis no matter whom it is writ to; for an author can as easily, I hope, suppose people to have more understanding and languages than they have, as well as more virtues. But why, the devil, should any of the few modest and handsome be alarmed?--for some there are, who, as well as any, deserve those attributes, yet refrain not from seeing this play, nor think it any addition to their virtue to set up for it in a playhouse, lest there it should look too much like acting--but why, I say, should any at all of the truly virtuous be concerned, if those who are not so are distinguished from 'em? for by that mask of modesty which women wear promiscuously in public, they are all alike; and you can no more know a kept wench from a woman of honour by her looks than by her dress. For those who are of quality without honour (if any such there are) they have their quality to set off their false modesty, as well as their false jewels; and you must no more suspect their countenances for counterfeit than their pendants, though as the plain dealer Montaigne says, "_Els envoy leur conscience au bordel, et tiennent leur continence en règle_." But those who act as they look, ought not to be scandalised at the reprehension of others' faults, lest they tax themselves with 'em, and by too delicate and quick an apprehension not only make that obscene which I meant innocent, but that satire on all, which was intended only on those who deserved it.

But, madam, I beg your pardon for this digression to civil women and ladies of honour, since you and I shall never be the better for 'em: for a comic poet and a lady of your profession make most of the other sort; and the stage and your houses, like our plantations, are propagated by the least nice women; and, as with the ministers of justice, the vices of the age are our best business. But now I mention public persons, I can no longer defer doing you the justice of a dedication, and telling you your own, who are, of all public-spirited people, the most necessary, most communicative, most generous and hospitable. Your house has been the house of the people; your sleep still disturbed for the public; and when you arose, 'twas that others might lie down; and you waked that others might rest; the good you have done is unspeakable. How many young inexperienced heirs have you kept from rash foolish marriages, and from being jilted for their lives by the worst sort of jilts, wives! How many unbewitched widowers' children have you preserved from the tyranny of stepmothers! How many old doters from cuckoldage, and keeping other men's wenches and children! How many adulteries and unnatural sins have you prevented! In fine, you have been a constant scourge to the old lecher, and often a terror to the young: you have made concupiscence its own punishment, and extinguished lust with lust, like blowing up of houses to stop the fire.

"Nimirum propter continentiam, incontinentia Necessaria est, incendium ignibus exstinguitur."[93]

There's Latin for you again, madam: I protest to you, as I am an author, I cannot help it: nay, I can hardly keep myself from quoting Aristotle and Horace, and talking to you of the rules of writing (like the French authors), to show you and my reader I understand 'em, in my epistle, lest neither of you should find it out by the play. And according to the rules of dedications, 'tis no matter whether you understand or no what I quote or say to you of writing; for an author can as easily make any one a judge or critic in an epistle, as a hero in his play. But, madam, that this may prove to the end a true epistle dedicatory, I'd have you to know 'tis not without a design upon you, which is in the behalf of the fraternity of Parnassus; that songs and sonnets may go at your houses, and in your liberties, for guineas and half-guineas; and that wit, at least with you, as of old, may be the price of beauty, and so you will prove a true encourager of poetry; for love is a better help to it than wine; and poets, like painters, draw better after the life than by fancy. Nay, in justice, madam, I think a poet ought to be as free of your houses, as of the play-houses; since he contributes to the support of both, and is as necessary to such as you, as a ballad-singer to a pick-purse, in convening the cullies at the theatres, to be picked up and carried to supper and bed at your houses. And, madam, the reason of this motion of mine is, because poor poets can get no favour in the tiring-rooms, for they are no keepers, you know; and folly and money, the old enemies of wit, are even too hard for it on its own dunghill: and for other ladies, a poet can least go to the price of them. Besides, his wit, which ought to recommend him to 'em, is as much an obstruction to his love, as to his wealth or preferment; for most women now-a-days apprehend wit in a lover, as much as in a husband; they hate a man that knows 'em, they must have a blind easy fool, whom they can lead by the nose; and, as the Scythian women of old, must baffle a man, and put out his eyes, ere they will lie with him; and then too like thieves, when they have plundered and stripped a man, leave him. But if there should be one of a hundred of those ladies generous enough to give herself to a man that has more wit than money, (all things considered,) he would think it cheaper coming to you for a mistress, though you made him pay his guinea; as a man in a journey (out of good husbandry), had better pay for what he has at an inn, than lie on free-cost at a gentleman's house.

In fine, madam, like a faithful dedicator, I hope I have done myself right in the first place: then you, and your profession, which in the wisest and most religious government in the world is honoured with the public allowance; and in those that are thought the most uncivilised and barbarous is protected and supported by the ministers of justice. And of you, madam, I ought to say no more here, for your virtues deserve a poem rather than an epistle, or a volume entire to give the world your memoirs, or life at large; and which (upon the word of an author that has a mind to make an end of his dedication) I promise to do, when I write the annals of our British love, which shall be dedicated to the ladies concerned, if they will not think them something too obscene too; when your life, compared with many that are thought innocent, I doubt not, may vindicate you, and me, to the world, for the confidence I have taken in this address to you; which then may be thought neither impertinent nor immodest; and whatsoever your amorous misfortunes have been, none can charge you with that heinous, and worst of women's crimes, hypocrisy; nay, in spite of misfortunes or age, you are the same woman still; though most of your sex grow Magdalens at fifty, and as a solid French author has it--

"Après le plaisir, vient la peine; Après la peine, la vertu."

But sure an old sinner's continency is much like a gamester's forswearing play, when he had lost all his money; and modesty is a kind of a youthful dress, which, as it makes a young woman more amiable, makes an old one more nauseous: a bashful old woman is like a hopeful old man; and the affected chastity of antiquated beauties is rather a reproach than an honour to 'em; for it shows the men's virtue only, not theirs. But you, in fine, madam, are no more a hypocrite than I am when I praise you; therefore I doubt not will be thought (even by yours and the play's enemies, the nicest ladies) to be the fittest patroness for,

Madam,

Your ladyship's most obedient, faithful, humble servant, and

THE PLAIN DEALER.

PROLOGUE.

SPOKEN BY THE PLAIN DEALER.

I the Plain Dealer am to act to-day, And my rough part begins before the play. First, you who scribble, yet hate all that write, And keep each other company in spite, As rivals in your common mistress, fame, And with faint praises one another damn; 'Tis a good play, we know, you can't forgive, But grudge yourselves the pleasure you receive: Our scribbler therefore bluntly bid me say, He would not have the wits pleased here to-day Next, you, the fine, loud gentlemen o' th' pit, Who damn all plays, yet, if y'ave any wit, 'Tis but what here you spunge and daily get; Poets, like friends to whom you are in debt, You hate; and so rooks laugh, to see undone Those pushing gamesters whom they live upon. Well, you are sparks, and still will be i' th' fashion; Rail then at plays, to hide your obligation. Now, you shrewd judges, who the boxes sway, Leading the ladies' hearts and sense astray, And, for their sakes, see all, and hear no play; Correct your cravats, foretops, lock behind: The dress and breeding of the play ne'er mind; Plain dealing is, you'll say, quite out of fashion; You'll hate it here, as in a dedication: And your fair neighbours, in a limning poet No more than in a painter will allow it. Pictures too like the ladies will not please; They must be drawn too here like goddesses. You, as at Lely's too, would truncheon wield, And look like heroes in a painted field. But the coarse dauber of the coming scenes To follow life and nature only means, Displays you as you are, makes his fine woman A mercenary jilt, and true to no man: His men of wit and pleasure of the age Are as dull rogues as ever cumber'd stage: He draws a friend only to custom just, And makes him naturally break his trust. I, only, act a part like none of you, And yet you'll say, it is a fool's part too: An honest man who, like you, never winks At faults; but, unlike you, speaks what he thinks: The only fool who ne'er found patron yet, For truth is now a fault as well as wit. And where else, but on stages, do we see Truth pleasing, or rewarded honesty? Which our bold poet does this day in me. If not to th' honest, be to th' prosperous kind, Some friends at court let the Plain Dealer find.

_DRAMATIS PERSONÆ._

MANLY, of an honest, surly, nice humour, supposed first, in the time of the Dutch war, to have procured the command of a ship, out of honour, not interest; and choosing a sea-life only to avoid the world.

FREEMAN, MANLY'S Lieutenant, a gentleman well educated, but of a broken fortune, a complier with the age.

VERNISH, MANLY'S bosom and only friend.

NOVEL, a pert railing Coxcomb, and an admirer of novelties, makes love to OLIVIA.

Major OLDFOX, an old impertinent Fop, given to scribbling, makes love to the Widow BLACKACRE.

Lord PLAUSIBLE, a ceremonious, supple, commending Coxcomb, in love with OLIVIA.

JERRY BLACKACRE, a true raw Squire, under age, and his mother's government, bred to the law.

Lawyers, Knights of the Post, Bailiffs and Aldermen, a Bookseller's Apprentice, a Foot-boy, Sailors, Waiters, and Attendants.

OLIVIA, MANLY'S Mistress.

FIDELIA, in love with MANLY, and follows him to sea in man's clothes.

ELIZA, Cousin of OLIVIA.

LETTICE, OLIVIA'S Woman.

Widow BLACKACRE, a petulant, litigious Widow, always in law, and Mother of Squire JERRY.

SCENE--LONDON.

_THE PLAIN DEALER._

ACT THE FIRST.