PROLOGUE
Truth says, of old the art of making plays
Was to content the people; and their praise
Was to the poet money, wine, and bays.
But in this age, a sect of writers are,
That, only, for particular likings care,
And will taste nothing that is popular.
With such we mingle neither brains nor breasts;
Our wishes, like to those make public feasts,
Are not to please the cook's taste, but the guests'.
Yet, if those cunning palates hither come,
They shall find guests' entreaty, and good room;
And though all relish not, sure there will be some,
That, when they leave their seats, shall make them say,
Who wrote that piece, could so have wrote a play,
But that he knew this was the better way.
For, to present all custard, or all tart,
And have no other meats, to bear a part.
Or to want bread, and salt, were but course art.
The poet prays you then, with better thought
To sit; and, when his cates are all in brought,
Though there be none far-fet, there will dear-bought,
Be fit for ladies: some for lords, knights, 'squires;
Some for your waiting-wench, and city-wires;
Some for your men, and daughters of Whitefriars.
Nor is it, only, while you keep your seat
Here, that his feast will last; but you shall eat
A week at ord'naries, on his broken meat:
If his muse be true,
Who commends her to you.
ANOTHER.
The ends of all, who for the scene do write,
Are, or should be, to profit and delight.
And still't hath been the praise of all best times,
So persons were not touch'd, to tax the crimes.
Then, in this play, which we present to-night,
And make the object of your ear and sight,
On forfeit of yourselves, think nothing true:
Lest so you make the maker to judge you,
For he knows, poet never credit gain'd
By writing truths, but things (like truths) well feign'd.
If any yet will, with particular sleight
Of application, wrest what he doth write;
And that he meant, or him, or her, will say:
They make a libel, which he made a play.
ACT 1. SCENE 1.
A ROOM IN CLERIMONT'S HOUSE.
ENTER CLERIMONT, MAKING HIMSELF READY, FOLLOWED BY HIS PAGE.
Cler:
Have you got the song yet perfect, I gave you, boy?
Page:
Yes, sir.
Cler:
Let me hear it.
Page:
You shall, sir, but i'faith let nobody else.
Cler:
Why, I pray?
Page:
It will get you the dangerous name of a poet in town, sir;
besides me a perfect deal of ill-will at the mansion you wot of,
whose lady is the argument of it; where now I am the welcomest
thing under a man that comes there.
Cler:
I think, and above a man too, if the truth were rack'd out
of you.
Page:
No, faith, I'll confess before, sir. The gentlewomen play with
me, and throw me on the bed; and carry me in to my lady; and she
kisses me with her oil'd face; and puts a peruke on my head; and
asks me an I will wear her gown? and I say, no: and then she
hits me a blow o' the ear, and calls me Innocent! and lets me go.
Cler:
No marvel if the door be kept shut against your master, when
the entrance is so easy to you—well sir, you shall go there no
more, lest I be fain to seek your voice in my lady's rushes, a
fortnight hence. Sing, sir.
Page [SINGS]:
Still to be neat, still to be drest—
[ENTER TRUEWIT.]
True:
Why, here's the man that can melt away his time and never
feels it! What between his mistress abroad, and his ingle at
home, high fare, soft lodging, fine clothes, and his fiddle; he
thinks the hours have no wings, or the day no post-horse. Well,
sir gallant, were you struck with the plague this minute, or
condemn'd to any capital punishment to-morrow, you would begin
then to think, and value every article of your time, esteem it
at the true rate, and give all for it.
Cler:
Why what should a man do?
True:
Why, nothing; or that which, when it is done, is as idle.
Harken after the next horse-race or hunting-match; lay wagers,
praise Puppy, or Pepper-corn, White-foot, Franklin; swear upon
Whitemane's party; speak aloud, that my lords may hear you;
visit my ladies at night, and be able to give them the character
of every bowler or better on the green. These be the things
wherein your fashionable men exercise themselves, and I for
company.
Cler:
Nay, if I have thy authority, I'll not leave yet. Come,
the other are considerations, when we come to have gray heads
and weak hams, moist eyes and shrunk members. We'll think on
'em then; and we'll pray and fast.
True:
Ay, and destine only that time of age to goodness, which our
want of ability will not let us employ in evil!
Cler:
Why, then 'tis time enough.
True:
Yes; as if a man should sleep all the term, and think to
effect his business the last day. O, Clerimont, this time, because
it is an incorporeal thing, and not subject to sense, we mock
ourselves the fineliest out of it, with vanity and misery
indeed! not seeking an end of wretchedness, but only changing the
matter still.
Cler:
Nay, thou wilt not leave now—
True:
See but our common disease! with what justice can we complain,
that great men will not look upon us, nor be at leisure to give
our affairs such dispatch as we expect, when we will never do it
to ourselves? nor hear, nor regard ourselves?
Cler:
Foh! thou hast read Plutarch's morals, now, or some such
tedious fellow; and it shews so vilely with thee! 'fore God, 'twill
spoil thy wit utterly. Talk me of pins, and feathers, and
ladies, and rushes, and such things: and leave this Stoicity
alone, till thou mak'st sermons.
True:
Well, sir; if it will not take, I have learn'd to lose as
little of my kindness as I can. I'll do good to no man against his
will, certainly. When were you at the college?
Cler:
What college?
True:
As if you knew not!
Cler:
No faith, I came but from court yesterday.
True:
Why, is it not arrived there yet, the news? A new foundation,
sir, here in the town, of ladies, that call themselves the
collegiates, an order between courtiers and country-madams,
that live from their husbands; and give entertainment to all the
wits, and braveries of the time, as they call them: cry down, or
up, what they like or dislike in a brain or a fashion, with most
masculine, or rather hermaphroditical authority; and every day
gain to their college some new probationer.
Cler:
Who is the president?
True:
The grave, and youthful matron, the lady Haughty.
Cler:
A pox of her autumnal face, her pieced beauty! there's no man
can be admitted till she be ready, now-a-days, till she has
painted, and perfumed, and wash'd, and scour'd, but the boy here;
and him she wipes her oil'd lips upon, like a sponge. I have made
a song, I pray thee hear it, on the subject.
PAGE. [SINGS.]
Still to be neat, still to be drest,
As you were going to a feast;
Still to be powder'd, still perfum'd;
Lady, it is to be presumed,
Though art's hid causes are not found,
All is not sweet, all is not sound.
Give me a look, give me a face,
That makes simplicity a grace;
Robes loosely flowing, hair as free:
Such sweet neglect more taketh me,
Then all the adulteries of art;
They strike mine eyes, but not my heart.
True:
And I am clearly on the other side: I love a good dressing
before any beauty o' the world. O, a woman is then like a
delicate garden; nor is there one kind of it; she may vary every
hour; take often counsel of her glass, and choose the best. If
she have good ears, shew them; good hair, lay it out; good
legs, wear short clothes; a good hand, discover it often;
practise any art to mend breath, cleanse teeth, repair eye-brows;
paint, and profess it.
Cler:
How? publicly?
True:
The doing of it, not the manner: that must be private. Many
things that seem foul in the doing, do please done. A lady
should, indeed, study her face, when we think she sleeps; nor,
when the doors are shut, should men be enquiring; all is sacred
within, then. Is it for us to see their perukes put on, their
false teeth, their complexion, their eye-brows, their nails? You
see guilders will not work, but inclosed. They must not discover
how little serves, with the help of art, to adorn a great deal.
How long did the canvas hang afore Aldgate? Were the people
suffered to see the city's Love and Charity, while they were rude
stone, before they were painted and burnish'd? No: no more should
Servants approach their mistresses, but when they are complete and
finish'd.
Cler:
Well said, my Truewit.
True:
And a wise lady will keep a guard always upon the place, that
she may do things securely. I once followed a rude fellow into a
chamber, where the poor madam, for haste, and troubled, snatch'd
at her peruke to cover her baldness; and put it on the wrong way.
Cler:
O prodigy!
True:
And the unconscionable knave held her in complement an hour
with that reverst face, when I still look'd when she should talk
from the t'other side.
Cler:
Why, thou shouldst have relieved her.
True:
No, faith, I let her alone, as we'll let this argument, if you
please, and pass to another. When saw you Dauphine Eugenie?
Cler:
Not these three days. Shall we go to him this morning? he is
very melancholy, I hear.
True:
Sick of the uncle? is he? I met that stiff piece of
formality, his uncle, yesterday, with a huge turban of night-caps
on his head, buckled over his ears.
Cler:
O, that's his custom when he walks abroad. He can endure no
noise, man.
True:
So I have heard. But is the disease so ridiculous in him as it
is made? They say he has been upon divers treaties with the
fish-wives and orange-women; and articles propounded between
them: marry, the chimney-sweepers will not be drawn in.
Cler:
No, nor the broom-men: they stand out stiffly. He cannot
endure a costard-monger, he swoons if he hear one.
True:
Methinks a smith should be ominous.
Cler:
Or any hammer-man. A brasier is not suffer'd to dwell in the
parish, nor an armourer. He would have hang'd a pewterer's prentice
once on a Shrove-tuesday's riot, for being of that trade, when the
rest were quit.
True:
A trumpet should fright him terribly, or the hautboys.
Cler:
Out of his senses. The waights of the city have a pension of
him not to come near that ward. This youth practised on him one
night like the bell-man; and never left till he had brought him
down to the door with a long-sword: and there left him
flourishing with the air.
Page:
Why, sir, he hath chosen a street to lie in so narrow at both
ends, that it will receive no coaches, nor carts, nor any of these
common noises: and therefore we that love him, devise to bring him in such as we may, now and then, for his exercise, to breathe him. He would grow resty else in his ease: his virtue would rust without action. I entreated a bearward, one day, to come down with the dogs of some four parishes that way, and I thank him he did; and cried his games under master Morose's window: till he was sent crying away, with his head made a most bleeding spectacle to the multitude. And, another time, a fencer marchng to his prize, had his drum most tragically run through, for taking that street in his way at my request.
True:
A good wag! How does he for the bells?
Cler:
O, in the Queen's time, he was wont to go out of town every
Saturday at ten o'clock, or on holy day eves. But now, by reason of
the sickness, the perpetuity of ringing has made him devise a
room, with double walls, and treble ceilings; the windows close
shut and caulk'd: and there he lives by candlelight. He turn'd away
a man, last week, for having a pair of new shoes that creak'd.
And this fellow waits on him now in tennis-court socks, or slippers
soled with wool: and they talk each to other in a trunk. See, who
comes here!
[ENTER SIR DAUPHINE EUGENIE.]
Daup:
How now! what ail you sirs? dumb?
True:
Struck into stone, almost, I am here, with tales o' thine
uncle. There was never such a prodigy heard of.
Daup:
I would you would once lose this subject, my masters, for my
sake. They are such as you are, that have brought me into that
predicament I am with him.
True:
How is that?
Daup:
Marry, that he will disinherit me; no more. He thinks, I and
my company are authors of all the ridiculous Acts and Monuments are
told of him.
True:
S'lid, I would be the author of more to vex him; that purpose
deserves it: it gives thee law of plaguing him. I will tell thee
what I would do. I would make a false almanack; get it printed:
and then have him drawn out on a coronation day to the Tower-wharf, and kill him with the noise of the ordnance. Disinherit thee! he cannot, man. Art not thou next of blood, and his sister's son?
Daup:
Ay, but he will thrust me out of it, he vows, and marry.
True:
How! that's a more portent. Can he endure no noise, and will
venture on a wife?
Cler:
Yes: why thou art a stranger, it seems, to his best trick,
yet. He has employed a fellow this half year all over England to
hearken him out a dumb woman; be she of any form, or any
quality, so she be able to bear children: her silence is dowry
enough, he says.
True:
But I trust to God he has found none.
Cler:
No; but he has heard of one that is lodged in the next street
to him, who is exceedingly soft-spoken; thrifty of her speech; that
spends but six words a day. And her he's about now, and shall have
her.
True:
Is't possible! who is his agent in the business?
Cler:
Marry a barber; one Cutbeard; an honest fellow, one that
tells Dauphine all here.
True:
Why you oppress me with wonder: a woman, and a barber, and
love no noise!
Cler:
Yes, faith. The fellow trims him silently, and has not the
knack with his sheers or his fingers: and that continence in a
barber he thinks so eminent a virtue, as it has made him chief of
his counsel.
True:
Is the barber to be seen, or the wench?
Cler:
Yes, that they are.
True:
I prithee, Dauphine, let us go thither.
Daup:
I have some business now: I cannot, i'faith.
True:
You shall have no business shall make you neglect this, sir;
we'll make her talk, believe it; or, if she will not, we can give
out at least so much as shall interrupt the treaty; we will break
it. Thou art bound in conscience, when he suspects thee without
cause, to torment him.
Daup:
Not I, by any means. I will give no suffrage to't. He shall
never have that plea against me, that I opposed the least phant'sy
of his. Let it lie upon my stars to be guilty, I'll be innocent.
True:
Yes, and be poor, and beg; do, innocent: when some groom of
his has got him an heir, or this barber, if he himself cannot.
Innocent!—I prithee, Ned, where lies she? let him be innocent
still.
Cler:
Why, right over against the barber's; in the house where
sir John Daw lies.
True:
You do not mean to confound me!
Cler:
Why?
True:
Does he that would marry her know so much?
Cler:
I cannot tell.
True:
'Twere enough of imputation to her with him.
Cler:
Why?
True:
The only talking sir in the town! Jack Daw!
and he teach her not to speak!—God be wi' you.
* I have some business too.
Cler:
Will you not go thither, then?
True:
Not with the danger to meet Daw, for mine ears.
Cler:
Why? I thought you two had been upon very good terms.
True:
Yes, of keeping distance.
Cler:
They say, he is a very good scholar.
True:
Ay, and he says it first. A pox on him, a fellow that
pretends only to learning, buys titles, and nothing else of
books in him!
Cler:
The world reports him to be very learned.
True:
I am sorry the world should so conspire to belie him.
Cler:
Good faith, I have heard very good things come from him.
True:
You may; there's none so desperately ignorant to deny that:
would they were his own! God be wi' you, gentleman.
[EXIT HASTILY.]
Cler:
This is very abrupt!
Daup:
Come, you are a strange open man, to tell every thing thus.
Cler:
Why, believe it, Dauphine, Truewit's a very honest fellow.
Daup:
I think no other: but this frank nature of his is not for
secrets.
Cler:
Nay, then, you are mistaken, Dauphine: I know where he has been
well trusted, and discharged the trust very truly, and heartily.
Daup:
I contend not, Ned; but with the fewer a business is carried,
it is ever the safer. Now we are alone, if you will go thither, I
am for you.
Cler:
When were you there?
Daup:
Last night: and such a Decameron of sport fallen out! Boccace
never thought of the like. Daw does nothing but court her; and the
wrong way. He would lie with her, and praises her modesty; desires
that she would talk and be free, and commends her silence in
verses: which he reads, and swears are the best that ever man
made. Then rails at his fortunes, stamps, and mutines, why he is
not made a counsellor, and call'd to affairs of state.
Cler:
I prithee let's go. I would fain partake this. Some water,
boy.
[EXIT PAGE.]
Daup:
We are invited to dinner together, he and I, by one that came
thither to him, sir La-Foole.
Cler:
O, that's a precious mannikin.
Daup:
Do you know him?
Cler:
Ay, and he will know you too, if e'er he saw you but once,
though you should meet him at church in the midst of prayers. He is one of the braveries, though he be none of the wits. He will salute a judge upon the bench, and a bishop in the pulpit, a lawyer when he is pleading at the bar, and a lady when she is dancing in a
masque, and put her out. He does give plays, and suppers, and
invites his guests to them, aloud, out of his window, as they
ride by in coaches. He has a lodging in the Strand for the purpose:
or to watch when ladies are gone to the china-houses, or the
Exchange, that he may meet them by chance, and give them presents, some two or three hundred pounds' worth of toys, to be laugh'd at. He is never without a spare banquet, or sweet-meats in his chamber, for their women to alight at, and come up to for a bait.
Daup:
Excellent! he was a fine youth last night; but now he is much
finer! what is his Christian name? I have forgot.
[RE-ENTER PAGE.]
Cler:
Sir Amorous La-Foole.
Page:
The gentleman is here below that owns that name.
Cler:
'Heart, he's come to invite me to dinner, I hold my life.
Daup:
Like enough: prithee, let's have him up.
Cler:
Boy, marshal him.
Page:
With a truncheon, sir?
Cler:
Away, I beseech you.
[EXIT PAGE.]
I'll make him tell us his pedegree, now; and what meat he has to
dinner; and who are his guests; and the whole course of his
fortunes: with a breath.
[ENTER SIR AMOROUS LA-FOOLE.]
La-F:
'Save, dear sir Dauphine! honoured master Clerimont!
Cler:
Sir Amorous! you have very much honested my lodging with your
presence.
La-F:
Good faith, it is a fine lodging: almost as delicate a lodging
as mine.
Cler:
Not so, sir.
La-F:
Excuse me, sir, if it were in the Strand, I assure you. I am
come, master Clerimont, to entreat you to wait upon two or three
ladies, to dinner, to-day.
Cler:
How, sir! wait upon them? did you ever see me carry dishes?
La-F:
No, sir, dispense with me; I meant, to bear them company.
Cler:
O, that I will, sir: the doubtfulness of your phrase, believe
it, sir, would breed you a quarrel once an hour, with the terrible
boys, if you should but keep them fellowship a day.
La-F:
It should be extremely against my will, sir, if I contested
with any man.
Cler:
I believe it, sir; where hold you your feast?
La-F:
At Tom Otter's, sir.
Page:
Tom Otter? what's he?
La-F:
Captain Otter, sir; he is a kind of gamester, but he has had
command both by sea and by land.
Page:
O, then he is animal amphibium?
La-F:
Ay, sir: his wife was the rich china-woman, that the courtiers
visited so often; that gave the rare entertainment. She commands
all at home.
Cler:
Then she is captain Otter.
La-F:
You say very well, sir: she is my kinswoman, a La-Foole by the
mother-side, and will invite any great ladies for my sake.
Page:
Not of the La-Fooles of Essex?
La-F:
No, sir, the La-Fooles of London.
Cler:
Now, he's in. [ASIDE.]
La-F:
They all come out of our house, the La-Fooles of the north, the
La-Fooles of the west, the La-Fooles of the east and south—we are
as ancient a family as any is in Europe—but I myself am descended
lineally of the French La-Fooles—and, we do bear for our coat
yellow, or or, checker'd azure, and gules, and some three or four
colours more, which is a very noted coat, and has, sometimes, been solemnly worn by divers nobility of our house—but let that go, antiquity is not respected now.—I had a brace of fat does sent me, gentlemen, and half a dozen of pheasants, a dozen or two of
godwits, and some other fowl, which I would have eaten, while they are good, and in good company:—there will be a great lady, or two, my lady Haughty, my lady Centaure, mistress Dol Mavis—and they come o' purpose to see the silent gentlewoman, mistress Epicoene, that honest sir John Daw has promis'd to bring thither—and then, mistress Trusty, my lady's woman, will be there too, and this honourable knight, sir Dauphine, with yourself, master Clerimont—and we'll be very merry, and have fidlers, and dance.—I have been a mad wag in my time, and have spent some crowns since I was a page in court, to my lord Lofty, and after, my lady's gentleman-usher, who got me knighted in Ireland, since it pleased my elder brother to die.—I had as fair a gold j*rkin on that day, as any worn in the island voyage, or at Cadiz, none dispraised; and I came over in it hither, shew'd myself to my friends in court, and after went down to my tenants in the country, and surveyed my lands, let new leases, took their money, spent it in the eye o' the land here, upon ladies:—and now I can take up at my pleasure.
Daup:
Can you take up ladies, sir?
Cler:
O, let him breathe, he has not recover'd.
Daup:
Would I were your half in that commodity!
La-F:
No, sir, excuse me: I meant money, which can take up any
thing. I have another guest or two, to invite, and say as much to,
gentlemen. I will take my leave abruptly, in hope you will not
fail—Your servant.
[EXIT.]
Daup:
We will not fail you, sir precious La-Foole; but she shall,
that your ladies come to see, if I have credit afore sir Daw.
Cler:
Did you ever hear such a wind-sucker, as this?
Daup:
Or, such a rook as the other! that will betray his mistress
to be seen! Come, 'tis time we prevented it.
Cler:
Go.
[EXEUNT.]