William Wycherley [Four Plays]. William Wycherley
![William Wycherley [Four Plays] - William Wycherley](limg_read866146.jpg "William Wycherley [Four Plays] - William Wycherley")
'Tis such as she; she is beautiful without affectation; amorous without impertinency; airy and brisk without impudence; frolic without rudeness; and, in a word, the justest creature breathing to her assignation.
Ran. You praise her as if you had a mind to part with her; and yet you resolve, I see, to keep her to yourself.
Dap. Keep her! poor creature, she cannot leave me; and rather than leave her, I would leave writing lampoons or sonnets almost.
Ran. Well, I'll leave you with her then.
Dap. What, will you go without seeing her?
Ran. Rather than stay without seeing her.
Dap. Yes, yes, you shall see her; but let me perish if I have not been offered a hundred guineas for a sight of her; by—I say no more.
Ran. [Aside.] I understand you now.—[Aloud.] If the favour be to be purchased, then I'll bid all I have about me for't.
Dap. Fy, fy, Mr. Ranger! you are pleasant, i'faith. Do you think I would sell the sight of my rarity?—like those gentlemen who hang out flags at Charing Cross, or like—
Ran. Nay, then I'm gone again.
Dap. What, you take it ill I refuse your money? rather than that should be, give us it; but take notice I will borrow it. Now I think on't, Lucy wants a gown and some knacks.
Ran. Here.
Dap. But I must pay it you again: I will not take it unless you engage your honour I shall pay it you again.
Ran. You must pardon me; I will not engage my honour for such a trifle. Go, fetch her out.
Dap. Well, she's a ravishing creature: such eyes and lips, Mr. Ranger!
Ran. Prithee go.
Dap. Such neck and breasts, Mr. Ranger!
Ran. Again, prithee go.
Dap. Such feet, legs, and thighs, Mr. Ranger!
Ran. Prithee let me see 'em.
Dap. And a mouth no bigger than your ring!—I need say no more.
Ran. Would thou wert never to speak again!
Dap. And then so neat, so sweet a creature in bed, that, to my knowledge, she does not change her sheets in half a year.
Ran. I thank you for that allay to my impatience.
Dap. Miss Lucy! Miss Lucy! Miss!—[Knocking at the door.
Ran. Will she not open? I am afraid my pretty miss is not stirring, and therefore will not admit us. Is she not gone her walk to Lamb's Conduit?[38]
Dap. Fy, fy, a quibble next your stomach in a morning! What if she should hear us? would you lose a mistress for a quibble? that's more than I could do, let me perish!—She's within, I hear her.
Ran. But she will not hear you; she's as deaf as if you were a dun or a constable.
Dap. Pish! give her but leave to gape, rub her eyes, and put on her day pinner; the long patch under the left eye; awaken the roses on her cheeks with some Spanish wool, and warrant her breath with some lemon-peel; the doors fly off the hinges, and she into my arms. She knows there is as much artifice to keep a victory as to gain it; and 'tis a sign she values the conquest of my heart.
Ran. I thought her beauty had not stood in need of art.
Dap. Beauty's a coward still without the help of art, and may have the fortune of a conquest but cannot keep it. Beauty and art can no more be asunder than love and honour.
Ran. Or, to speak more like yourself, wit and judgment.
Dap. Don't you hear the door wag yet?
Ran. Not a whit.
Dap. Miss! miss! 'tis your slave that calls. Come, all this tricking for him!—Lend me your comb, Mr. Ranger.
Ran. No, I am to be preferred to-day, you are to set me off. You are in possession, I will not lend you arms to keep me out.
Dap. A pox! don't let me be ungrateful; if she has smugged herself up for me, let me prune and flounce my peruke a little for her. There's ne'er a young fellow in the town but will do as much for a mere stranger in the playhouse.
Ran. A wit's wig has the privilege of being uncombed in the very playhouse, or in the presence.
Dap. But not in the presence of his mistress; 'tis a greater neglect of her than himself. Pray lend me your comb.
Ran. I would not have men of wit and courage make use of every fop's mean arts to keep or gain a mistress.
Dap. But don't you see every day, though a man have never so much wit and courage, his mistress will revolt to those fops that wear and comb perukes well. I'll break off the bargain, and will not receive you my partner.
Ran. Therefore you see I am setting up for myself. [Combs his peruke.
Dap. She comes, she comes!—pray, your comb. [Snatches Ranger's comb.
Enter Mrs. Crossbite.
Mrs. Cros. Bargain!—what, are you offering us to sale?
Dap. A pox! is't she?—Here take your comb again, then. [Returns the comb.
Mrs. Cros. Would you sell us? 'tis like you, y'fads.
Dap. Sell thee!—where should we find a chapman? Go, prithee, mother, call out my dear Miss Lucy.
Mrs. Cros. Your Miss Lucy! I do not wonder you have the conscience to bargain for us behind our backs, since you have the impudence to claim a propriety in us to my face.
Ran. How's this, Dapperwit?
Dap. Come, come, this gentleman will not think the worse of a woman for my acquaintance with her. He has seen me bring your daughter to the lure with a chiney-orange, from one side of the playhouse to the other.
Mrs. Cros. I would have the gentleman and you to know my daughter is a girl of reputation, though she has been seen in your company; but is now so sensible of her past danger, that she is resolved never more to venture her pitcher to the well, as they say.
Dap. How's that, widow? I wonder at your confidence.
Mrs. Cros. I wonder at your old impudence, that where you have had so frequent repulses you should provoke another, and bring your friend here to witness your disgrace.
Dap. Hark you, widow, a little.
Mrs. Cros. What, have you mortgaged my daughter to that gentleman; and now would offer me a snip to join in the security!
Dap. [Aside.] She overhead me talk of a bargain;—'twas unlucky.—[Aloud.] Your wrath is grounded upon a mistake; Miss Lucy herself shall be judge; call her out, pray.
Mrs. Cros. She shall not; she will not come to you.
Dap. Till I hear it from her own mouth, I cannot believe it.
Mrs. Cros. You shall hear her say't through the door.
Dap. I shall doubt it unless she say it to my face.
Mrs. Cros. Shall we be troubled with you no more then?
Dap. If she command my death, I cannot disobey her.
Mrs. Cros. Come out, child.
Enter Lucy, holding down her head.
Dap. Your servant,