Maintain your post: that"s all the fame you need; For "tis impossible you should proceed.
Already I am worn with cares and age, And just abandoning th" ungrateful stage: Unprofitably kept at heav"n"s expense, I live a rent-charge on his providence.
But you, whom every muse and grace adorn, Whom I foresee to better fortune born, Be kind to my remains; and oh, defend, Against your judgment, your departed friend!
Let not th" insulting foe my fame pursue; But shade those laurels which descend to you: And take for tribute what these lines express: You merit more; nor could my love do less.
JOHN DRYDEN.
PROLOGUE Spoken by MRS. BRACEGIRDLE.
Moors have this way (as story tells) to know Whether their brats are truly got or no; Into the sea the new-born babe is thrown, There, as instinct directs, to swim or drown.
A barbarous device, to try if spouse Has kept religiously her nuptial vows.
Such are the trials poets make of plays, Only they trust to more inconstant seas; So does our author, this his child commit To the tempestuous mercy of the pit, To know if it be truly born of wit.
Critics avaunt, for you are fish of prey, And feed, like sharks, upon an infant play.
Be ev"ry monster of the deep away; Let"s have a fair trial and a clear sea.
Let nature work, and do not d.a.m.n too soon, For life will struggle long e"er it sink down: And will at least rise thrice before it drown.
Let us consider, had it been our fate, Thus hardly to be proved legitimate: I will not say, we"d all in danger been, Were each to suffer for his mother"s sin: But by my troth I cannot avoid thinking, How nearly some good men might have "scaped sinking.
But, heav"n be praised, this custom is confined Alone to th" offspring of the muses kind: Our Christian cuckolds are more bent to pity; I know not one Moor-husband in the city.
I" th" good man"s arms the chopping b.a.s.t.a.r.d thrives, For he thinks all his own that is his wives".
Whatever fate is for this play designed, The poet"s sure he shall some comfort find: For if his muse has played him false, the worst That can befall him, is, to be divorced: You husbands judge, if that be to be cursed.
DRAMATIS PERSONAE.
MEN.
MASKWELL, a villain; pretended friend to Mellefont, gallant to Lady Touchwood, and in love with Cynthia,--_Mr. Betterton_.
LORD TOUCHWOOD, uncle to Mellefont,--_Mr. Kynaston_.
MELLEFONT, promised to, and in love with Cynthia,--_Mr. Williams_.
CARELESS, his friend,--_Mr. Verbruggen_.
LORD FROTH, a solemn c.o.xcomb,--_Mr. Bowman_.
BRISK, a pert c.o.xcomb,--_Mr. Powell_.
SIR PAUL PLYANT, an uxorious, foolish old knight; brother to Lady Touchwood, and father to Cynthia,--_Mr. Dogget_.
WOMEN.
LADY TOUCHWOOD, in love with Mellefont,--_Mrs. Barry_.
CYNTHIA, daughter to Sir Paul by a former wife, promised to Mellefont,--_Mrs. Bracegirdle_.
LADY FROTH, a great coquette; pretender to poetry, wit, and learning,--_Mrs. Mountfort_.
LADY PLYANT, insolent to her husband, and easy to any pretender,--_Mrs.
Leigh_.
CHAPLAIN, BOY, FOOTMEN, AND ATTENDANTS.
THE SCENE: A gallery in the Lord Touchwood"s house, with chambers adjoining.
ACT I.
SCENE I.
_A gallery in the Lord Touchwood"s home_, _with chambers adjoining_.
_Enter_ CARELESS, _crossing the stage_, _with his hat_, _gloves_, _and sword in his hands_; _as just risen from table_: MELLEFONT _following him_.
MEL. Ned, Ned, whither so fast? What, turned flincher! Why, you wo"
not leave us?
CARE. Where are the women? I"m weary of guzzling, and begin to think them the better company.
MEL. Then thy reason staggers, and thou"rt almost drunk.
CARE. No, faith, but your fools grow noisy; and if a man must endure the noise of words without sense, I think the women have more musical voices, and become nonsense better.
MEL. Why, they are at the end of the gallery; retired to their tea and scandal, according to their ancient custom, after dinner. But I made a pretence to follow you, because I had something to say to you in private, and I am not like to have many opportunities this evening.
CARE. And here"s this c.o.xcomb most critically come to interrupt you.
SCENE II.
[_To them_] BRISK.
BRISK. Boys, boys, lads, where are you? What, do you give ground?
Mortgage for a bottle, ha? Careless, this is your trick; you"re always spoiling company by leaving it.