William Wycherley [Four Plays]. William Wycherley
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Ran. I am your man then, madam; for I find just the same fault with your sex as you do with ours:—I ne'er could have to do with woman in my life, but still she would be impertinently talking of marriage to me.
L. Flip. Observe that, Mrs. Joyner.
Dap. Pray, Mr. Ranger, let's go; I had rather drink with Mr. Vincent, than stay here with you; besides 'tis Park-time.
Ran. [To Dapperwit.] I come.—[To Lady Flippant.] Since you are a lady that hate marriage, I'll do you the service to withdraw the company; for those that hate marriage hate loss of time.
L. Flip. Will you go then, sir? but before you go, sir, pray tell me is your aversion to marriage real?
Ran. As real as yours.
L. Flip. If it were no more real than mine—[Aside.
Ran. Your servant, madam. [Turns to go.
L. Flip. But do you hate marriage certainly? [Plucks him back.
Ran. Certainly.
L. Flip. Come, I cannot believe it: you dissemble it only because I pretend it.
Ran. Do you but pretend it then, madam?
L. Flip. [Aside] I shall discover myself—[Aloud] I mean, because I hold against it, you do the same in complaisance:—for I have heard say, cunning men think to bring the coy and untractable women to tameness as they do some mad people—by humouring their frenzies.
Ran. I am none of those cunning men, yet have too much wit to entertain the presumption of designing upon you.
L. Flip. 'Twere no such presumption neither.
Dap. Come away; 'sdeath! don't you see your danger?
Ran. Those aims are for Sir Simon.—Good night, madam.
L. Flip. Will you needs go, then?—[To Sir Simon] The gentlemen are a-going, Sir Simon; will you let 'em?
Sir Sim. Nay, madam, if you cannot keep 'em, how should I?
L. Flip. Stay, sir; because you hate marriage, I'll sing you a new song against it. [Sings.
A spouse I do hate,
For either she's false or she's jealous;
But give us a mate
Who nothing will ask us or tell us.
She stands on no terms,
Nor chaffers, by way of indenture,
Her love for your farms;
But takes her kind man at a venture.
If all prove not right,
Without an act, process, or warning,
From wife for a night
You may be divorced in the morning.
When parents are slaves,
Their brats cannot be any other;
Great wits and great braves
Have always a punk[31] to their mother.
Though it be the fashion for women of quality to sing any song whatever, because the words are not distinguished, yet I should have blushed to have done it now, but for you, sir.
Ran. The song is edifying, the voice admirable—and, once more, I am your servant, madam.
L. Flip. What, will you go too, Mr. Dapperwit?
Sir Sim. Pray, Mr. Dapperwit, do not you go too.
Dap. I am engaged.
Sir Sim. Well, if we cannot have their company, we will not have their room: ours is a private backroom; they have paid their reckoning, let's go thither again.
L. Flip. But pray, sweet Mr. Dapperwit, do not go. Keep him, Sir Simon.
Sir Sim. I cannot keep him. [Exeunt Vincent, Ranger, and Dapperwit.
It is impossible; (the world is so;)
One cannot keep one's friend, and mistress too. [Exeunt.
ACT THE SECOND.
SCENE I.—St. James's Park at night.
Enter Ranger, Vincent, and Dapperwit.
Ran. Hang me, if I am not pleased extremely with this new-fashioned caterwauling, this mid-night coursing in the park.
Vin. A man may come after supper with his three bottles in his head, reel himself sober, without reproof from his mother, aunt, or grave relation.
Ran. May bring his bashful wench, and not have her put out of countenance by the impudent honest women of the town.
Dap. And a man of wit may have the better of the dumb show of well-trimmed vest or fair peruke:—no man's now is whitest.
Ran. And now no woman's modest or proud; for her blushes are hid, and the rubies on her lips are dyed, and all sleepy and glimmering eyes have lost their attraction.
Vin. And now a man may carry a bottle under his arm instead of his hat;—and no observing spruce fop will miss the cravat that lies on one's shoulder, or count the pimples on one's face.
Dap. And now the brisk repartee ruins the complaisant cringe, or wise grimace.—Something 'twas, we men of virtue always loved the night.
Ran. O blessed season!
Vin. For good-fellows.
Ran. For lovers.
Dap. And for the Muses.
Ran. When I was a boy I loved the night so well, I had a strong vocation to be a bellman's apprentice.
Vin. I, a drawer.
Dap. And I, to attend the waits of Westminster, let me perish!
Ran. But why do we not do the duty of this and such other places;—walk, censure, and speak ill of all we meet?
Dap. 'Tis no fault of mine, let me perish!
Vin. Fy, fy! satirical gentlemen, this is not your time; you cannot distinguish a friend from a fop.
Dap. No matter, no matter; they will deserve amongst 'em the worst we can say.
Ran. Who comes here, Dapperwit? [People walk slowly over the stage.
Dap. By the toss of his head, training of his feet, and his elbows playing at bo-peep behind his back, it should be my Lord Easy.
Ran. And who the woman?
Dap. My Lord what-d'ye-call's daughter, that had a child by—
Vin. Dapperwit, hold your tongue.
Ran. How! are you concerned?
Vin. Her brother's an honest fellow, and will drink his glass.
Ran. Prithee, Vincent, Dapperwit did not hinder drinking to-night, though he spake against it; why, then, should you interrupt his sport?—Now, let him talk of anybody.
Vin. So he will—till you cut his throat.
Ran. Why should you on all occasions thwart him, contemn him, and maliciously look grave