Three Hours after Marriage. John Gay
TREMENDOUS, Mr. Bowman.
First PLAYER, Mr. Diggs.
Second PLAYER, Mr. Watson.
SAILOR. Mr. Bickerstaff.
Footmen, Servants, &c.
WOMEN.
Mrs. TOWNLEY, Mrs. Oldfield.
Mrs. PHOEBE CLINKET, Mrs. Bicknet.
SARSNET, Mrs. Garnet.
PRUE. Miss Willis.
ACT I
Enter FOSSILE, leading TOWNLEY.
Fos. Welcome, my bride, into the habitation of thy husband. The scruples of the parson —
Town. And the fatigue of the ceremony —
Foss. Are at last well over.
Town. These blank licences are wonderful commodious. – The clergy have a noble command, in being rangers of the park of matrimony; produce but a warrant, and they deliver a lady into your possession: but I have no quarrel with them, since they have put me into so good hands.
Foss. I now proclaim a solemn suspension of arms between medicine and diseases. Let distempers suspend their malignant influence, and powders, pills, and potions their operations. Be this day sacred to my love. I had rather hold this hand of thine, than a dutchess by the pulse.
Town. And I this, than a hand of matadores.
Foss. Who knows but your relations may dispute my title to your person? come, my dear, the seal of the matrimonial bond is consummation.
Town. Alas! what will become of me!
Foss. Why are thy eyes fix'd on the ground? why so slow? and why this trembling?
Town. Ah! heedless creature that I was, to quit all my relations, and trust myself alone in the hands of a strange man.
Foss. Courage, thou best of my curiosities. Know that in husband, is comprehended all relations; in me thou seest a fond father.
Town. Old enough o' my conscience.
[Aside.
Foss. You may, you must trust yourself with me.
Town. Do with me as you please: Yet sure you cannot so soon forget the office of the church. Marriage is not to be undertaken wantonly, like brute beasts. If you will transgress, the sin be upon your own head.
Foss. Great indeed is thy virtue, and laudable is thy modesty. Thou art a virgin, and I a philosopher; but learn, that no animal action, quatenus animal, is unbecoming of either of us. But hold! where am I going? Prithee, my dear, of what age art thou?
Town. Almost three and twenty.
Foss. And I almost at my grand climacterick. What occasion have I for a double-night at these years? She may be an Alcmena, but alas! I am no thunderer.
[Aside
Town. You seem somewhat disturb'd; I hope you are well, Mr. Fossile.
Foss. What business have I in the bed-chamber, when the symptoms of age are upon me? Yet hold, this is the famous corroborative of Crollius; in this vial are included sons and daughters. Oh, for a draught of the aqua magnanimitatis for a vehicle! fifty drops of liquid laudanum for her dose would but just put us upon a par. Laudanum would settle the present ataxy of her animal spirits, and prevent her being too watchful.
[aside
Enter a Servant.
Serv. Sir, your pistachoe-porridge is ready.
[Exit.
Foss. Now I think of it, my dear; Venus, which is in the first degree of Capricorn, does not culminate till ten; an hour if astrology is not fallible, successful in generation.
Town. I am all obedience, Sir.
Foss. How shall I reward thee for so much Goodness? let our wedding as yet be a secret in the family. In the mean time I'll introduce my niece Phoebe Clinket to your acquaintance: but alas, the poor girl has a procidence of the pineal gland, which has occasioned a rupture in her understanding. I took her into my house to regulate my oeconomy; but instead of puddings, she makes pastorals; or when she should be raising paste, is raising some ghost in a new tragedy. In short, my house is haunted by all the underling players, broken booksellers, half-voic'd singing-masters, and disabled dancing-masters in town. In a former will I had left her my estate; but I now resolve that heirs of my own begetting shall inherit. Yonder she comes in her usual occupation. Let us mark her a while.
Enter Clinket and her maid bearing a writing-desk on her back. Clinket writing, her head dress stain'd with ink, and pens stuck in her hair.
Maid. I had as good carry a raree-show about the streets. Oh! how my back akes!
Clink. What are the labours of the back to those of the brain? thou scandal to the muses. I have now lost a thought worth a folio, by thy impertinance.
Maid. Have not I got a crick in my back already, that will make me good for nothing, with lifting your great books?
Clink. Folio's, call them, and not great books, thou monster of impropriety: But have patience, and I will remember the three gallery-tickets I promis'd thee at my new tragedy.
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