THE HAPPY PRESCRIPTION; OR, THE LADY RELIEVED FROM HER LOVERS: A COMEDY, IN RHYME. WRITTEN FOR A PRIVATE THEATRE, BY WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ.
CALCUTTA: PRINTED IN THE YEAR M.DCC.LXXXV.
TO HER GRACE THE DUCHESS OF DEVONSHIRE.
Non perch' io creda bisognar mici carmi
A chi se ne fa copia da se stessa;
Ma sol per sati
fare a questo mio
Che h
d' onorarla e di lodar disio.
ARIO
TO, Canto xxxvii.
THE Great and Fair, in ev'ry age and clime,
Receive free homage from the Sons of Rhyme:
Bend, ye ambitious Bards, at Grandeur's shrine!
Be Power your patron! Wit and Beauty mine!—
To thee, whom elegance has taught to please
By serious dignity, or sportive case;
Whom Virtue hails, at Pleasure's festive rites,
Chaste Arbiter of Art's refin'd delights:
To thee, fair DEVON! I breathe this votive strain;
Nor dread th' averted ear of proud Disdain:
For O, if music has not blest my lyre,
A lovelier spirit of th' aetherial choir,
Joy-breathing Gratitude, that hallow'd guest,
Who fires with heavenly zeal the human breast,
Bids my weak voice her swelling note prolong,
And consecrate to thee her tributary song.
When first my anxious Muse's fav'rite child,
Her young SERENA, artless, simple, wild,
Pr
'd from privacy's safe scenes to fly,
And met in giddy haste the public eye;
T
y
praise her trembling youth sustain'd,
The
s
dar'd not ask, from thee she gain'd;
And found a guardian in the gracious DEVON,
Kind as the regent of her fancied heaven.—
The flatter'd Muse, whose offspring thou hast blest,
In the fond pride that rules a parent's breast,
Presents thus boldly to thy kind embrace
This little group of her succeeding race,
Blest! if by pathos true to Nature's law,
From thy soft bosom they may haply draw
Those tender sighs, that eloquently shew
The virtues of the heart from whence they flow!
Blest! if by foibles humorously hit
In the light scenes that aim at comic wit,
They turn thy pensive charms to mirthful grace,
And wake the sprightly sweetness of thy face!
While thus the proud Enthusiast would aspire
To change thy beauties with her changing lyre;
Much as she wants the talent and the right,
To shew thy various charms in varied light,
O might the Muse, intruding on thy bower,
From her fair Patron catch the magic power!
Frequent to meet the public eye, and still
That fickle eye with fond amazement fill!
Let her, if this vain wish is lost in air,
Breathe from her grateful heart a happier prayer!
Howe'er her different sables may give birth
To fancied woe, and visionary mirth;
May all thy griefs belong to Fiction's reign,
And wound thee only with a pleasing pain!
May thy light spirit, on the sea of life,
Elude the rocks of care, the gusts of strife,
And safely, as the never-sinking buoy,
Float on th' unebbing flood of real joy!
EARTHAM,
January 29, 1784.
W. HAYLEY.
PERSONS OF THE DRAMA.
SIR NICHOLAS ODDFISH,
SAPPHIC,
DECISIVE,
MORLEY,
COLONEL FELIX,
JONATHAN, Servant to MORLEY;
SELINA, Niece to Sir NICHOLAS,
MRS. FELIX, her Cousin, and Wife to the COLONEL,
JENNY, Servant to SELINA.
Servants of Sir NICHOLAS, &c.
SCENE,
the Country Mansion of the
ODDFISH
Family.
THE HAPPY PRESCRIPTION.
ACT THE FIRST. SCENE I.
Enter
Sir Nicholas,
in debate with
Mrs. Felix
and
Selina.
WHAT a strange declaration!—it gives me the spleen;
But 'tis what good Sir Nicholas never can mean.
Not mean it, fair lady!—By Jupiter, yes!
And my project, you'll see, will be crown'd with success;
I am joyous myself, and 'tis ever my plan
To give those I love all the joy that I can.
We own it—but joy is like diet, dear cousin,
One palate mayn't relish what pleases a dozen;
Nor will I allow that my appetite's vicious,
If, perchance, I don't like what you think most delicious.
Rare dainty distinctions!—But can I believe
That a woman e'er liv'd, since the wedding of Eve,
Whose heart (tho' most coyly her head might be carried)
Did not fervently wish to be speedily married?
Not to wound your nice ears with the name of desires
Which youth renders lovely, and nature inspires,
Your sex, from its weakness demands a defender,
Whom pride and affection make watchful and tender;
And if my fair Coz is no hypocrite grown,
The truth of my maxims you'll honestly own;
While the wars from your arms the brave Colonel detain,
Is the want of a husband the source of no pain?
There, indeed, you have touch'd me a little too near,
My Soldier, you know, to my soul is most dear,
I own—and my frankness you never will blame,
I'd purchase his presence with ought but his fame.
Well said, thou dear, honest, and warm-hearted wife;
For thy truth may good angels still watch o'er his life!
And while others the rough field of slaughter are treading,
Send him home full of glory, to dance at our wedding!
For a wedding we'll have to enliven us all,
And Hymen's bright altar shall warm the old hall.
For my Niece ere I die 'tis my wish to provide,
And ere two months are past I
will
see her a bride.
I'm resolv'd—and you know that my neighbours all say,
Sir Nicholas Oddfish will have his own way.
Selina, dear Sir, wants no other protection,
While her life glides in peace by your gentle direction.
She thinks, and, I own, I approve her remark:
In conjugal cares 'tis too soon to embark:
Her bosom untouch'd by Love's dangerous dart,
Fate has not yet shewn her the man of her heart.
The man of her heart!—these nonsensical fancies
You light-headed females pick out of romances.
That I am no tyrant you know very well,
So Cousin don't teach my good Niece to rebel!
I am no greedy guardian, who thinks it his duty
On the altar of Plutus to sacrifice beauty;
Whose venal barbarity, justly abhorr'd,
Ties a lovely young girl to an old crippled lord,
And basely, to gain either rank or estate,
Makes her swear she will love, what she cannot but hate.
From such a protector Heaven guard my dear Niece!
I wish her to wed that her joys may increase;
And the deuce must be in the strange girl who discovers
No man to her mind in such plenty of lovers.
To no very great length will my cruelty run,
If from twenty admirers I bid her chuse one.
But why, dear Sir Nicholas, why in such haste?
'Tis thus that my projects are ever disgrac'd
With the false names of hurry and precipitation,
Because I abhor silly procrastination;
That thief of delight, who deludes all our senses,
Who cheats us for ever with idle pretences,
By whom, like the dog in the fable, betray'd,
We let go the substance to snap at the shade.
To seize present Time is the true Art of Life;
'Tis Time who now cries, make Selina a Wife!
The season is come, I've so long wish'd to see,
From the moment I dandled her first on my knee:
She, you know, to my care was bequeath'd by my Brother,
And having this Child, I ne'er wish'd for another:
Thro' life I have kept myself single for her;
Her interest, her joy, to my own I prefer.
Your kindness, dear Sir, I can never repay.
In truth, my dear damsel, you easily may;
I demand no return so enormously great;
I ask but a Boy to possess my estate.
Lord, Uncle, how come such odd thoughts in your head?
From his heart, I assure you—'tis pleasantly said;
A fair stipulation—both parties agreed,
The compact, I trust, in due time will succeed;
But patience, dear Knight, you will have your desire,
Nor wait very long for a young little 'Squire.
The cold stream of Patience ne'er creeps in my veins,
But the wish my heart forms my quick spirit attains.
I'm none of your chill atmospherical wretches,
Whose affections are subject to starts and to catches;
Whose wish, like a weather-cock, veering about,
Now turns towards hope, and now changes to doubt:
No, mine, like the needle without variation,
Only looks to one point, and that point's Consummation.
I want to behold this young Urchin arise,
Before I have lost or my legs or my eyes,
That I may enjoy all his little vagaries,
As the changeable season of infancy varies.
I long to be moulding his heart and his spirit,
To shew him the fields he is born to inherit;
Lead him round our rich woods, while my limbs are yet limber,
And tell the young rogue, how I've nurs'd up his timber;
That when the worn thread of my life is untwisted,
He long may remember that I have existed:
And when my old frame in our monument rests,
As he walks by my grave with a few worthy guests,
He thus to some warm-hearted friend may address him,
Here lies my odd, honest, old Uncle—God bless him!
Thank Heaven, dear Cousin, your hale constitution
Shews not the least sign of a near dissolution.
To make your life happy, whate'er the condition,
Has been, my dear Uncle, my highest ambition;
To fulfil every wish that your fancy can frame,
Still is, as it ought to be, ever my aim:
But if by your voice I am doom'd to the altar,
With terror and pain my weak accents must falter,
Unless my kind stars a new lover should send me,
Unlike all the swains who now deign to attend me.
Nice wench! do you want the whole world to adore you?
Would you have all the men of the earth rang'd before you?
For, thanks to your charms, and to fortune's kind bounty,
You may rank in your train all the youth of our county,
And chuse whom you will; if the man has but worth,
And is nearly your equal in wealth and in birth,
I give my consent—you are free from restriction;
But I will not be plagu'd with perverse contradiction.
I will see you wed without any delay:
Your two fittest lovers are coming to-day;
Young Sapphic, whose verses delight all the fair,
And Dicky Decisive, Sir Jacob's next heir:
Both young and both wealthy, both comely and clever,
To gain you, no doubt, each will warmly endeavour;
For they come for a month, by my own invitation,
On purpose to found my dear girl's inclination:
I have said to them both, and no man can speak fairer,
Let him, who can please her most, win her and wear her.
aside to
Mrs. Felix.
Good angels defend me!
I see nothing frightful:
Our month with such guests must be very delightful:
When Sapphic's soft verses incline us to dose,
Dick will keep us awake with satirical prose.
Don't cross me, I say! nor mislead my good Niece!
By Jove, if she thwarts me with any caprice,
Like a certain old justice I'll ring up my maids,
And marry the first of the frank-hearted jades;
For perverse contradiction I never will bear,
But provide for myself a more dutiful heir.
Dear Cousin, in spite of his worship's decision,
You cannot be certain of such a provision:
Attempts of that nature are subject to fail.
My designs you shall see, Madam, always prevail:
For if this nice Gipsy, by your machination,
Declines every offer, to give me vexation,
Like my late jolly neighbour, Sir Timothy Trickum,
Who vindictively married the frail Molly Quickum,
I'll make sure of the matter, and chuse me a wife,
With an heir ready plac'd on the threshold of life:
For, as I have said, tho' a foe to restriction,
I never will suffer perverse contradiction.
You now know my mind, which no mask ever covers,
So farewell, and prepare to receive your two lovers.
Exit.
Go thy way, thou strange mixture of sense and of blindness!
A model at once of oppression and kindness.
Thy will, thou odd compound of goodness and whim,
Is a stream, against which it is treason to swim;
Yet we must cross the current—
Dear Cousin say how!
Direct opposition he will not allow:
What can you devise as a plan of prevention?
How divert his keen spirit from this new intention?
I had much rather die than be ever united
To one of the lovers, that he has invited:
My heart has a thorough aversion to both:
Yet to make him unhappy I'm equally loth;
When I think what I owe to his tender protection,
The worst of all ills is to lose his affection.
Dear Girl, your warm gratitude gives you new charms:
'Tis an amiable fear, which your bosom alarms,
And I from your Uncle's quick humour would screen you,
Nor loosen the bands of affection between you.
He merits your love, and you know he has mine;
Yet we somehow must baffle his hasty design,
Nor suffer his whim thus to make you a Wife,
To repent the rash business the rest of his life.
Take courage! kind Chance may assist us—
I doubt it,
Yet Heaven knows how we shall manage without it;
For when his heart's set on a favorite scheme,
His ardor and haste, as you know, are extreme,
Like a med'cine ill-tim'd opposition is vain,
And inflames the disorder 'twas meant to restrain.
In his fevers indeed there is no intermission:
And thanks, gentle Coz! to your soft disposition!
So sweet and compliant your temper has been,
You have taught him to think contradiction a sin;
And here all around him confirm that belief,
His vassals all bow to the nod of their chief.
Here shut from the world in this rural dominion,
No mortal opposes his will or opinion;
And thus he is spoil'd—Politicians all say,
Human nature's not fashion'd for absolute sway.
'Tis true, tho' the world, as you say, think him odd,
In this sphere he is held a diminutive god:
And when I behold how his fortune is spent,
In suppressing vexation, and spreading content;
When I hear all the poor his kind bounty expressing,
And thoroughly know how he merits their blessing,
My feelings with theirs in his eulogy join,
And confess, that his nature is truly divine.
Thou excellent Girl! if such fondness and zeal
For a warm-hearted, whimsical Uncle you feel,
With what fine sensations your bosom will glow,
What tender attachment your temper will shew,
When your fortunate lord Love and Hymen invest
With higher dominion o'er that gentle breast!
But tell me, dear Cousin—be honest—declare,
Has no young secret swain form'd an interest there?
I suspect—but don't let my suspicion affright you,
Tho' the good Knight's rare virtues amuse and delight you,
From this gloomy old hall you would wish to get free,
Had not Cupid preserv'd you from feeling
ennui
;
Come, tell me the name of the favorite youth:
I am sure I guess right.
No, in sad sober truth
I never have seen in the course of my life,
A mortal to whom I should chuse to be wise.
Ye stars, what a pity!—I wish I could learn
That my Colonel from India would shortly return,
Both for your sake and mine; for our present distress
He would speedily turn into joyous success;
As his regiment must some young hero afford,
Who might throw at your feet both himself and his sword.
What say you, my dear, to a soldier?—
Enter
Jenny.
Oh! Madam,
Here's young Mr. Sapphic—I vow, if I had them,
I'd give fifty pounds had you seen how politely
He beg'd me to tie a sweet nosegay up tightly,
Which is jolted to pieces—well, he's a sweet beau;
And now with his pencil he's writing below,
I believe 'tis a posy, he writes it so neatly,
And I'm sure 'tis fine verse, Ma'am, it sounded so sweetly.
Oh charming! his vows will be very sublime,
And I trust we shall hear his proposals in rhyme.
How can you, dear Cousin, so cruelly jest in
A business you know I am really distrest in?
I shall certainly forfeit my Uncle's protection,
For I never can wed where I feel no affection.
Do help me.
Good Girl, this perplexity smother,
And think your two lovers will banish each other:
There's much to be hop'd from our present affairs.
O, Ma'am, Mr. Sapphic is coming up stairs.
(Aside as she goes out.)
I am mightily pleas'd with this marrying plan,
And I hope in my spirit that he'll be the man.
Exit.
Enter
Sapphic.
Fair Ladies, the moments have seem'd to be hours,
While I stopt in your hall to adjust a few flowers:
For the season, I'm told, they're uncommonly fine;
But I still wish the tribute more worthy the shrine.
Bowing and presenting them to
Selina.
Mr. Sapphic is always extremely polite:
These roses, indeed, are a wonderful sight;
You are far better florists than we are.
My dear,
Mr. Sapphic has magic to make them appear,
And Flora is brib'd by the songs he composes
To produce for her poet extempore roses;
Into this early bloom all her plants are bewitch'd:
But you do not observe how the gift is inrich'd,
Here's a border of verse, if my eyes don't deceive me.
aside to
Mrs. Felix.
Dear Cousin you'll read it—I pray you relieve me;
I shall blush like a fool at each civil expression.
aside to
Selina,
taking the paper.
Now with emphasis just and with proper discretion.
(Mrs. Felix
reads.
)
"Ye happy flowers give and receive perfume
"As on Selina's fragrant breast ye bloom:
"From earth, tho' not arrang'd in order nice,
"Ye are transplanted into Paradise;
"If on that spot ye languish into death,
"'Twill be from envy of her sweeter breath."
'Tis a delicate compliment, tender and pretty,
What original spirit! how graceful and witty!
Dear Ma'am, you're too good to find any thing in it,
'Tis a mere hasty trifle—the work of a minute:
On the anvil had not a moment to hammer,
And I fear, in my haste I have sinn'd against grammar.
All slight imperfections I never regard
When I meet with such vigor of thought in a bard,
With a fancy so brilliant—
O! Ma'am, you're too kind;
But candor's the test of an amiable mind.
I wish that your taste all our Critics might guide,
To soften that rigor with which they decide.
From Critics, dear Sir, you have litttle to fear.
If Mr. Decisive himself had been here,
He must have been charm'd with this sweet
jeu d'esprit,
Which, as he is coming to-day, he shall see.
I am eager to hear how his wit will applaud it:
To conceal it would be of due praise to defraud it.
In Mercy's name, Ladies, I beg your protection,
Preserve my poor rhymes from Decisive's inspection;
Consider how hasty—
Say rather how sprightly—
Compos'd in a moment—
Produc'd so politely!
He'll cut them to atoms!
Dear Sir, he's your friend,
And I thought he had seen all the poems you pen'd:
I was told that to him your long works you rehearse—
Does Mr. Decisive himself write in verse?
I wish from my soul that he did now and then;
But he uses the pen-knife much more than the pen,
And too freely has slash'd all who write in the nation,
To give them an opening for retaliation.
My old friend Decisive has honour and wit;
To the latter, indeed, he makes most things submit;
And thinks it fair sport, as a friend or a foe,
To knock down a Bard by a flaming
bon mot.
To your sex indeed his chief failings I trace;
For the fair-ones so flatter'd his figure and face,
That too early he ceas'd the chaste Muses to follow,
And being Adonis, would not be Apollo.
Yet he has much fancy.
O, Madam, no doubt,
And genius that study would soon have brought out.
Had his thoughts been less turn'd to his legs and his looks,
Ere this he'd have written some excellent books:
'Tis pity such parts should thro' indolence fall;
But he never composes, and reads not at all.
Not read, Mr. Sapphic! you surely mistake;
Your friend cannot be an illiterate rake:
Our neighbours, who lately from London came down,
Declare, that his word forms the taste of the town!
Dear Madam, the business is easily done;
He judges all authors, but never reads one.
I'm sure he must own this
impromptu
is sweet,
And I vow he shall read it—
Dear Ma'am, I intreat,
I conjure you to spare me; this earnest petition
I know you will grant me—
On this one condition,
That for six lines suppress'd you indulge me with twenty:
Come, shew us your pocket-book—there you have plenty
Of tender poetical squibs for the Fair.
taking out his pocket-book.
Dear Ma'am here is nothing.
A volume, I swear,
O, charming! well, now you're an excellent man;
'Tis stuff'd like a pincushion—
Yes, Ma'am—with bran.
Fie, fie, you're too modest, and murder my meaning;
What a harvest is here! yet I ask but a gleaning:
It would not be fair to seize all the collection,
Tho' all is most certainly worthy inspection.
Indulge us, dear Sir: come, I'll take no refusal.
Indeed, Ma'am, here's nothing that's fit for perusal.
There are fifty fine things, and one can't chuse amiss.
taking out a paper▪
Here's one new little song—
Well then, let me have this.
after giving a paper.
They all are so jumbled, I fear I am wrong;
I meant to have shewn you a new little song,
Which was written last week on the ball at our races,
Where I heard the Miss Trotters compar'd to the Graces;
I could not help saying, t'was very profane,
It was taking the name of the Graces in vain.
reads.
"
On seeing Selina and Jenny near each other in
"
the garden.
"
O mercy, dear, Madam, you must not read those!
A stanza unfinish'd.—
How sweetly it flows!
Selina, pray hear it.
aside to
Mrs. FELIX.
Dear Cousin enough!
How can you delight in his horrible stuff!
reads.
"Tho' each in the same garden blows,
"The poet must be crazy,
"Who, when invited by the rose,
"Can stoop to pick the daisy."
aside to
Mrs. FELIX.
If you love me, dear Cousin, assist me, I pray,
To end all this nonsense, and get him away.—
Pray, Sir, when you came, was my Uncle below?
He's abroad, Ma'am, your servant inform'd me—
O No!
You have heard he is building a temple to Pan,
And we hope that your taste may embellish the plan:
At the end of the walk, in his favourite grove,
Where there formerly stood an old ruin'd alcove,
You'll find him; and as 'tis an art you are skill'd in,
Twill please him to know what you think of the building.
Aye do, Mr. Sapphic, inspect what is done,
For the workmen all blunder'd when first they begun;
Your opinion I'm sure will oblige the good Knight.
An inscription, he once said, he wish'd you to write.
Dear Madam!—the hint is delightful, I vow;
To the God of Arcadia I hasten to bow:
I shall find the good Knight in the midst of the dome;
I am heartily glad that he is not from home.
We shall surely contrive something clever between us,
And the Muse will compose by the order of Venus.
Bows tenderly to
Selina,
and exit.
How could you so praise that impertinent creature?
And praise him without discomposing a feature!—
I could not have thought, before this conversation,
That your frankness could turn into such adulation.
The World, my dear Child, is to you quite unknown;
When you see it you'll find such discourse is the
ton
;
Fine folks in high life learn to praise with great glee
Such persons and things as they sicken to see.
To me your best thanks for my speeches are due—
By thus flattering the Poet, I surely serve you;
He will now play the Sky-lark instead of the Dove,
And stun me with songs, while you're sav'd from his love.
Enter
Jenny.
Dear Ma'am, now I hope Mr. Sapphic's quite blest,
For he flies thro' the walks like a bird to his nest.—
He's a sweet pretty gentleman.
aside to
Selina.
This, if I shew it,
Will soon banish Jenny's regard for the poet:—
Jenny, see what your friend Mr. Sapphic has written.
Dear Ma'am, with his verses I always am smitten.
(Having read the stanza.)
A Daisy indeed! to be sure I am neat,
But tho' I'm a servant I hope I am sweet.
When he makes my young Mistress a Rose or a Lilly,
He might turn me at least to a Daffy-down-dilly.
But a Daisy, forsooth! with no fragrance at all!—
I'll cross him for this—
What's that noise in the hall?
As sure as I live 'tis your other gay Spark,
For I saw a new chaise driving into the park.—
I'll see, Ma'am.
(
Aside going out
)
I'll shew this fine Poet a trick—
A Daisy! that no one but children will pick.
Exit.
This simile Jenny I see cannot swallow,
And her anger may ruin this son of Apollo;
For in courtship this maxim is often display'd,
He has half lost the Mistress who loses the Maid.
Enter
Decisive.
Alone, my dear Ladies!—they told me below,
Our friend Sapphic was here, your poetical Beau;
I was almost afraid that my sudden intrusion
Might check the rich stream of some lyric effusion.
(
To
Selina.)
I'm happy to see you so lovely to-day;
But I hope I've not frighted your Poet away.
O no—Mr. Sapphic had bid us adieu—
And not without saying some fine things of you:
He declares, that with those brilliant parts you possess,
'Tis a sin you ne'er send any work to the press.
Good Sapphic! In truth 'tis his comfort to think
The whole duty of man lies in spilling of ink;
And at Paradise gate his large volumes of metre
Will I hope be allow'd a fair pass by Saint Peter.
Then the Saint must be free from your critical spirit,
For I know you have little esteem for their merit;
You're a rigorous judge, and to poets terrific.
I wish my friend's muse was not quite so prolific:
But in rhymes when a child I have heard he would squeak,
And so proved a poet before he could speak;
On his death-bed, I doubt not, he'll still think of verse,
And groan out a rhyme to his doctor or nurse.
I fancy your favourite reading is prose;
Here's a new set of travels, pray have you read those?
taking the book.
This author is lucky to meet with a buyer:
A traveller's but a soft word for a liar.
Such works may please those who have ne'er been abroad,
But men, who have travell'd, perceive all the fraud.
Is the work so deceitful! it seems you have read it?
Not a syllable, Madam—
Pray who then has said it?
Not a soul that I know—but such books are a trade.
And I perfectly know how those volumes are made.
'Tis a work, I am told, that has great reputation
Both for wit and for truth—
We're a credulous nation—
Pray what kind of books are your favourite study?
I find modern works only make the brain muddy,
As my friends grew by reading more awkward than wise,
And ruin'd their persons and clouded their eyes;
I have wisely resolv'd not to read any more,
Since each living author is turn'd to a
bore.
How can you so waste all your bright mental powers?
'Tis pity you men have not such works as ours—
What d'ye say to my knotting?
(
Takes out her work.
)
Your box wants a hinge.
And I'll give you a much better pattern for fringe;
I brought it from France.
Now I see, my good friend,
There is no kind of work which your skill cannot mend:
In all arts you possess a distinguishing head,
From building a temple to knotting a thread.
A-propos
of a temple—pray has the good Knight
Rais'd his altar to Pan?—he had fix'd on the site.
Is the structure begun?—I have not seen his plan—
Then hasten, and pay your devotions to Pan.
Sir Nicholas now in his vestibule stands,
To guide all his workmen and quicken their hands;
And Sapphic is gone to attend the good Knight,
And try what inscription his genius can write.
Poor Pan! by the Graces thou'rt left in the lurch;
Thy temple will look like a trim parish church,
With Sapphic's inscriptions, like scraps of the Bible
Put up, as the Church-wardens say, in a
libel.
Indeed we much fear so—pray haste to inspect it,
And exert all your exquisite taste to correct it.
Ma'am I'll do what I can, for it puts me in wrath
To see a fine temple disgrac'd by a Goth.
Exit.
Well, my dear, your two Lovers, like true men of fashion,
Do not pester you much with the heat of their passion:
You'll be quite at your ease—thanks to Pan and the Muse!
Enter
Jenny,
hastily.
News! news! my dear Ladies, most excellent news!
The girl is quite wild!
What transports you so, Jenny?
I've news for you, Madam, that's well worth a guinea;
I have news from the Colonel—
A letter! Where is it?
No, Ma'am, here's a stranger arriv'd on a visit,
And he comes from the place where the Colonel is fighting.
And with letters for me?
Madam, that I'm not right in;
For I run from his man when I got half my story;
But the Colonel, he says, is all riches and glory.
Dear girl that's enough; through my life I shall feel
Due regard for thy warm and affectionate zeal.
But where is this Stranger?
Just walk'd to my Master.
His poor man has met with a cruel disaster;
He was wounded in battle.
Pray treat him with care.—
In your joy, my dear Cousin, I heartily share.
This Stranger's a jewel for you from the East;
He's a Captain, I hope, my dear Jenny, at least.
Ah, Madam! my fancy suppos'd him so too;
But we're both in the wrong, and for Miss he won't do,
For I learnt from his man he is only a Doctor.
Poor Jane, how the difference of title has shock'd her!
For my part I can't find by my reason or feeling,
That the art of destroying excels that of healing:
We may equally love the professors of both.
That Miss tho' should marry a Doctor I'm loth.
Come, my dear, let us meet 'em—I can't rest above—
How slowly fly letters from hands that we love!
End of
ACT I.
ACT THE SECOND. SCENE I.
Enter
Jenny
and
Jonathan.
COME, dear Mr. Jonathan, tell me the whole;
An account of a battle I love to my soul;
There is nothing on earth I so truly delight in,
As to hear a brave Soldier discourse about fighting.—
So the Colonel was wounded you say near the wall:
Whereabouts was the shot? Did he instantly fall?
No; recoiling a little he rush'd on again,
And fought like a lion, made fiercer by pain;
Tho' a cursed keen arrow an Indian let fly,
Pierc'd the bone of his cheek just below the right eye.
'Twas a horrible wound! but it could not appal him.
O mercy! that such a hard fate should befal him.
Alas! I'm afraid that his fine manly face
Must have lost by the fear all its spirit and grace.
Does he look very hideous?
No; thanks to my Master,
You can hardly perceive that he e'er wore a plaister.
There never was known a more wonderful cure;
But kind Heaven assists my good Master I'm sure;
Without it the skill of no mortal could save
The many brave lads he has kept from the grave.
You would weep with delight to behold him surrounded
With a hundred fine fellows once horribly wounded;
Who with thanks for their lives are still eager to greet him,
And hail him with blessings whenever they meet him.
God reward him, say I, for the good he has done;
And of those he has sav'd I am glad you are one.
Aye, twice he preserv'd me when all thought me dead,
And once brought me off at the risque of his head.
It was not his business to mix in the strife,
And some thought him mad when he ventur'd his life
To bring off a poor mangled private like me;
But I've still a heart left in this trunk that you see,
Which loves the brave spirit who snatch'd me from death,
And will serve him, I hope, till my very last breath.
Your scenes of hard service I hope are all over;
It is now fairly time you should both live in clover.
Your Master, I trust, has brought home as much treasure
As will make him a parliament-man at his pleasure;
And to recompence you for the wound in your arm,
Perhaps he will buy you a snug little farm.
When a Gentleman comes from the East, my good girl,
You all think he is loaded with diamonds and pearl;
You fancy his treasure too great to be told,
And suppose he possesses a mountain of gold.
A few daring blades, by a bold kind of stealth,
Have indeed from the Indies brought home so much wealth,
That with all their keen senses they ne'er could employ it:
And have dy'd from the want of a heart to enjoy it:
But some hundred brave lads, whom gay youth led to enter
That promising region of hope and adventure,
Have toil'd many years in those rich-burning climes,
With small share of their wealth, and with none of their crimes.
Now my Master and I both belong to this tribe;
Not a single Nabob have we kill'd for a bribe;
And to tell you a truth, which I hope you'll not doubt,
We're as poor and as honest as when we set out.
What! your Master still poor in so thriving a trade!
And with patients so rich has he never been paid
For the wounds he has heal'd?
Yes, my dear, for his fees
I know he has touch'd many thousand rupees;
But the fight of distress he could never endure;
What he took from the rich he bestow'd on the poor.
Well, Heaven will pay him, no doubt, in due season.
But what brings him home?—I would fain know the reason
Why he leaves that rich land in the bloom of his life:
I suppose from the want of a cherry-cheek'd wife?
They say those black wenches are sad nasty creatures,
And tho' they've fine shapes they have horrible features.
Does he want a white sweet-heart? or has he a black?
'Tis indeed a white woman that brings us both back:
But alas! 'tis an old one—my Master, it seems,
Has a fond simple mother that's troubled with dreams,
And he, like a tender and soft-hearted youth,
Resigns his fine prospect, and comes home forsooth
Because the old dame has express'd her desires
To see him in England before she expires:
And egad since he's come she will live long enough,
For she seems to be made of good durable stuff.
Well, now I shall love him a hundred times more
Than I did for the stories you told me before.
God bless the kind soul! who behaves to his mother
As if he well knew he could ne'er have another;
And were he my son I could not live without him;
I could stay here all day while you're talking about him.—
But 'tis time to be gone; we must both disappear,
For the Colonel's sweet Wife and your Master are here.
Stop, I must peep at her;—she's as bright as the day!
And her heart is as good as her spirit is gay—
Come I'll shew you our walks—we may get out this way.
Exeunt.
Enter
Mrs. Felix
and
Morley.
Dear excellent Friend, since I owe to your worth
The safety of what I most value on earth,
With those it loves best my heart yields you a place,
And I clasp your kind hand with a sister's embrace.
To judge of the man whom such service endears
I want not the tardy acquaintance of years,
But in strong tho' guick ties, that no chances can sever,
In an instant he seizes my friendship for ever:
And had I much less obligation to you,
My regard and esteem I should still think your due,
From the picture my Felix has drawn of your mind.
His warm soul to his friends is most partially kind:
But such as I am I most truly am yours;
Your goodness my grateful attachment ensures,
And my heart with proud transport your friendship embraces.
Tho' I ne'er gaz'd before on your personal graces,
I've beguil'd some long weeks of hard wearisome duty
With frequent discourse on your virtues and beauty;
And I own for the Colonel it rais'd my esteem,
To mark with what pleasure he dwelt on the theme.
You're an excellent creature to sooth a fond Wife,
Who regards her Lord's love hardly less than his life;
But since you've replied with good humour so steady
To the ten thousand questions I've ask'd you already,
I'll spare you to-day, and if 'tis in my power
Mention Felix's name only once in an hour.
That my thoughts to the Indies no longer may roam,
Let me talk to you now about matches at home;
Your counsel may make our perplexity less,
And finish our odd tragi-comic distress.
First tell me, and speak without any disguise,
(Tho' I fancy I read all your thoughts in your eyes)
What d'ye think of my Cousin?
Her graces indeed
The glowing description of Felix exceed;
Tho' in praising her, oft he with pleasure has smil'd
Like a father describing his favourite child.
For my part, I think she is lavishly blest
With those beauties by which the pure mind is exprest,
That her heart is with truth and with tenderness warm,
That sweet sensibility shines in her form;
A form, on which no man his eye ever turn'd
Without feeling his breast in her welfare concern'd.
'Tis the lot of such graces, wherever they dwell,
None can see their soft mistress and not wish her well.
Very gallantly said, and the praise is her due—
But how came her Lovers so well known to you?
Her Lovers! —dear Madam, I hope you're in jest—
Or if by their vows your sweet Friend is addrest,
Heaven grant, for the peace of her delicate mind,
That her hand may be never to either resign'd!
From my soul I assure you I join in your prayer;
But whence does it spring?
I will freely declare,
Tho' they're both men of fortune, fair birth, and good name,
With figures that set some young nymphs in a flame;
Tho' at each, many ladies are ready to catch
At what the world calls, a most excellent match;
Yet, if I have read your fair Cousin aright,
A bosom so tender, a spirit so bright,
Must be wretched with such a companion for life,
As each of these Lovers would prove to his Wife.
You are right; but their characters where could you know?
I knew them at college a few years ago,
Before, by a whimsical odd sort of fate,
And some family losses, too long to relate,
In Europe my views of prosperity ceas'd,
And chance sent me forth to my friends in the East.
Pray what sort of youths were these two modish men?
You now find them both what they seem'd to be then;
Two characters form'd like most young men of fashion,
Whose cold selfish pride is their sovereign passion:
In each, tho' they're men of an opposite turn,
The same heart-freezing vanity still you discern,
To indulge that dear vanity, each still displays
All the force of his mind, tho' in different ways.
Thence, in spinning weak verse Sapphic's toil never ends,
And Decisive ne'er stops in deriding his friends;
Each equally fancies no nymph can resist
His lips, which he thinks all the Graces have kist.
Perfect knowledge of both your just picture has shown!—
The warmth of these Lovers diverts me, I own.
Of conquest each seems to himself very clear,
And feels from his rivals no diffident fear.
'Tis easy to see from their satisfied air,
Each loves his own person much more than the Fair.
But my poor gentle Coz wishes both at a distance;
And I want to contrive, by your friendly assistance,
To relieve her, and quietly send them from hence
Without the Knight's knowledge.
As neither wants sense,
Can't the Lady pronounce their dismission at once,
Which none can mistake but an impudent dunce?
This measure seems easy indeed at first view;
But alas! 'tis a measure we dare not pursue.
Our warm-hearted, whimsical, positive Knight,
Allows not to woman this natural right;
And hence my young Friend, in a pitiful case,
Knows not how to reject what she ne'er can embrace;
For nothing her Uncle's resentment would smother,
Should she banish one suitor, and not take the other.
Then indeed I am griev'd for the Lady's distress;
But how can I aid her?
'Tis hard, I confess,
To a sudden retreat this bold pair to oblige,
And make two such Heroes abandon a siege;
Yet I wish we could do it—and when they recede,
The departure of both must appear their own deed,
after a pause.
Well—my friendship for you has suggested a scheme.
'Tis a service our hearts will for ever esteem.
But what is your project?
Don't question me what,
Lest you think me a fool for too simple a plot:
'Tis simple, and yet I would venture my life
It will drive from these Beaus all the thoughts of a Wife;
And if my scheme prospers, with joy I'll confess
What a whimsical trifle produc'd our success.
Well, keep your own secret, if silence is best;
Tho' a woman, for once I'll in ignorance rest. —
Here comes our friend Sapphic—he seems in a flurry.
His step shews indeed a poetical hurry,
And we shall be call'd in as Gossips, fair neighbour,
For by the Bard's bustle his Muse is in labour.
Enter
Sapphic.
Dear Ma'am! may I ask you for paper and ink,
Lest a fresh
jeu d'esprit
in oblivion should sink?
For when my free fancy has brought forth my verse,
My treacherous memory proves a bad nurse.
O pray! for your Muse let us rear her young chit,
For the bantling no doubt must have spirit and wit;
As a cradle to hold it, I beg you'll take that,
(giving him a paper.)
And your Friend here will aid you in dressing the Brat;
At a rite so important I merit no place,
And I beg to withdraw while you're washing its face.
Exit.
That's a charming gay Creature—luxuriant and young—
But I've lost half a stanza—the deuce take her tongue;—
Let me see—let me see if I can't recollect it.—
'Tis done;—and now, Morley, pray hear or inspect it.
The Poet himself his own verse should recite.
You're a sensible fellow—your maxim is right.
(Reads.)
"Thy old Arcadia, Pan, resign,
"For this more rich retreat:
"A fairer nymph here decks thy shrine;
"Be this thy fav'rite seat."
Well, my Friend, won't this bring the old God out of Greece?
Aye, and make good Sir Nicholas give you his Niece.
Yes, I fancy this stanza will make the Girl mine.
What Poet can wish for a prize more divine?
I give you much Joy on your conquest, my Friend;
Yet the eyes of regret on your nuptials I bend,
And grieve in reflecting, that conjugal joy
Your poetical harvest of Fame must destroy.
What the deuce do you mean?
To those great works adieu
Which the world now expects with impatience from you.
The Poet when blest can no more be sublime,
And a chill matrimonial must strike thro' his rhyme.
You're mistaken, dear Doctor—connubial delight
Will give a new zest to each poem I write;
And you'll see such productions!—
'Tis true, now and then
Polemics by marriage have quicken'd their pen.
A Dutch Critic I knew, by the aid of his Wife,
Made a book and a child every year of his life.
But total seclusion from Venus and Bacchus,
Is, you know, to the Bard recommended by Flaccus.
A grand epic poem I hear you are writing;
'Tis a work that your country will take great delight in:
But consider, my Friend, when you're deep in heroics,
As Poets have not all the patience of Stoics,
How you'll grieve to be check'd in the flow of your verse,
By a young squalling child and an old scolding nurse;
E'en the qualms of your Lady may drive from your brain
Fine thoughts that you ne'er can recover again;
Reflect how you'll feel, with such hopes of succeeding,
If your Muse should miscarry because your Wife's breeding.
Egad, in that case I should think my fate hard.
I myself have beheld an unfortunate Bard,
Who his nails for a rhyme unsuccessfully bit,
When family cares had extinguish'd his wit.
With many who sing in the Muse's full choir,
It would do them no mischief to muffle their lyre;
But for you, whom the Nine, with a tender presage,
Are prepar'd to proclaim the first Bard of our age;
For you, who of Taste are the favourite theme—
Yes, I think I stand high in the public esteem.—
For you, I should grieve if domestic delight
On your fair rising laurels should fail as a blight.
'Tis the pride of great minds whom the Muses inflame,
To sacrifice joy on the altar of Fame:
Your passion's renown—of this Girl are you fonder?—
On this delicate point I must leave you to ponder;
Consider it, while I attend the old Knight.
Exit.
alone (after a pause.)
By Jove, I believe my friend Morley is right.
Thou, Fame, art my Mistress; to win thee I sing.
This Girl, tho' she's handsome, is but a dull thing.
'Tis clear, whensoe'er I a poem rehearse,
That she has no relish for elegant verse.—
Her fortune indeed would be rather convenient,
But the glorious to me is before the expedient.
Egad I'd quit Venus herself, if I knew
That the system of Morley was certainly true.
I don't think the Girl to Decisive inclin'd;
But here comes her Maid, who may tell me her mind.
Enter
Jenny.
My good little Jenny, you're trusty and true,
And your Mistress, I know, tells her secrets to you.
What you know, to a friend you may safely impart,
And give me a perfect account of her heart:
Pray how do I stand in your Lady's regard?
Now's my time to be even with this saucy Bard.
(
aside.
)
To be sure, Sir, the taste of my Lady is odd;
But poetry moves her no more than a clod.
What! no relish for rhyme!—Does she never repeat
The soft little sonnets I've laid at her feet?
Ah, Sir! would my Mistress were once of my mind,
(For I read all the verses of yours that I find)
But my Lady's so cruel she thwarts my desire,
And to hide them from me throws them into the fire.
She's a fool—she's a fool
(
aside.
)
—I should have a fine life,
With such a prosaic dull jade of a wife.
But, my good Sir, I hope you will not be dejected,
I could tell you by whom all your wit is respected.
There's a heart upon which you have made such impression—
But I must not betray her by my indiscretion.
Whom d' ye mean, my good Jenny? come, tell me, my dear.
You would make a bad use of the secret I fear.—
Now I hope I shall lead the Bard into a scrape,
(
aside.
)
For he bites like a Gudgeon, and cannot escape.
Come, say who's in love with me—if she is fair,
I'll not leave the dear creature, I vow, to despair.
O lud! I protest she is coming this way;
But I did not intend her regard to betray.
I must fly—but I beg that you'll not be too free.
Exit.
Madam Felix!—I thought she was partial to me.
Enter
Mrs. Felix.
May I enter without incommoding the Muse?
By a question like this your own charms you abuse.
Those eyes, my dear Madam, were form'd, I profess,
To inspirit a Poet, and not to depress;
From your presence he surely must catch inspiration.
A very poetical fine salutation!
But I seriously beg, if you're busy with rhyme,
That you will not allow me to take up your time.
As I'm not Selina, you're free from restriction,
And may tell me plain truths, unembellish'd with fiction.
Then I swear, my dear Creature, I swear by this hand,
That I feel as I touch it my genius expand;
That your lips—O by Jove! he's a madman or booby,
Who roves to the Indies for diamond or ruby;
And each vein in my heart his strange folly condemns,
Who leaves these more bright and more exquisite gems.
Sweet Fair! let me keep, while their richness I praise,
The cold damp of neglect from o'erclouding their rays.
(
While
Mr. Sapphic
kisses
Mrs. Felix
with great vehemence,
Jenny
enters unperceived.
)
O ho!—have I caught you; impertinent Poet!
This is more than I hop'd for—my Master shall know it.
Exit.
Good God! Mr. Sapphic, what frantic illusion
Has produc'd this ridiculous scene of confusion?
All Poets are Quixotes in love, I am told;
And the truth of the adage in you I behold.
As the Knight once mistook an old mill for a giant,
Your sense as disorder'd, your fancy as pliant,
Takes me for my Cousin—your love's ebullition
I only can pardon on this supposition.
I fain would suppose that no insult was meant,
Nor believe you could think, what I ought to resent.
O! talk not of anger with lips that inspire
The strongest sensation of rapturous fire,
That with love's sweet convulsions shake every nerve:
O! think not that I your resentment deserve;
Because my warm heart, thus engross'd by your charms,
Is ambitious of filling these dear empty arms.
No, let me while basking beneath your bright eye,
The place of a thankless deserter supply;
And in this melting breast kindle ecstacy's flame,
Which Nature design'd for so glowing a frame,
Away, Sir! and since in your fondling insanity
You reject the excuse which I form'd for your vanity,
My threats must inform you—
O! frown not, sweet Creature;
Let not wrath spoil the charm of thy every feature.
Regain you your sense—from my wrath you are free,
Which should not be rais'd by a being like thee;
Begone then!—my pardon in vain you'll implore,
If you dare on this subject to breathe a word more.
Words, indeed, my warm fair one, by Nature's confession,
For the love that I feel, are no proper expression;
The soul's fond intent in soft murmurs should swell,
And kisses explain what no language can tell.
Ye Gods, how luxuriant!
Away! quit my arm!
Or my cries in an instant the house shall alarm.
Provoking sweet Creature! —indulge my fond passion;
Come, come, don't I know you're a woman of fashion?
Your coyness, I've heard, you can sometimes give over;
And I'm sure you're too wise to be true to a rover.
Besides, I have learnt, that with partial regard
You have cast a kind eye on your ill-treated Bard.
Away! thou vain coxcomb! nor, base as thou art,
Insult the bright Lord of so loyal a heart;
Begone!—I abhor thee—my person release!—
entering.
Is it thus, my young Sir, you pay court to my Niece!
Confusion! What devil has sent the old Knight?
How dare you, pert stripling, almost in my sight
To insult a chaste Female that's under my roof?—
But since of your baseness you give me such proof,
You shall feel it repaid by a proper correction.
(
aside.
)
Deuce take this perverse and unlucky detection:
I wish I had wisely, as Morley had taught me,
Renounc'd that jade Venus before he thus caught me.
What excuse can I make him?—
(
To
Sir Nicholas)
My dear worthy Sir,
Tho' I now seem most justly your wrath to incur,
Yet as you grow cool, your opinion will vary,
You will not resent much an idle vagary,
A mere romping frolic—
A frolic, d'ye say!
Then a frolic of mine shall your frolic repay.
Call our Servants to punish this frolic some Spark,
They shall drag him across the new pond in the park.
(
aside.
)
'Tis what he can't mean—yet his countenance such is,
I wish from my soul I was out of his clutches.—
(
To
Sir Nicholas.)
Dear Sir, I assure you, I'm griev'd beyond measure
That I thus have awaken'd your furious displeasure;
When calmer—
Young Man, I am not in a fury,
A sentence more just never came from a jury;
Such frolics as yours have Old England disgrac'd:
In High Life let them flourish as Fashion and Taste.
To those wanton young fellows I am not severe,
Who attack the loose Wife of a vain gambling Peer.
My Lady whose Lord wastes at Hazard the night,
May plead to more generous pleasures some right;
I care not how each keeps their conjugal oath,
Since honour and peace must be strangers to both.
But when a brave Soldier, pure Glory's true son,
Ennobled with laurels laboriously won;
When risking in far distant climates his life,
To his Country he leaves a fair innocent Wife;
Accurst be the man, who, to Friendship unjust,
Fails to guard as his soul this most delicate trust;
Or to punish those Pops who insult her chaste beauty,
And invite her to swerve from her honour and duty.
Of the doom that I think to such Libertines due,
I will give to the world an example in you.
Our old English discipline, Ducking, by name,
Shall atone for your outrage, by quenching your flame.
Here! William and John!
For my sake, I intreat
That you will not, dear Sir, this rough vengeance compleat,
By Jupiter, Cousin, to make him less fond,
He shall croak out his love to the frogs of our pond.—
Here, William! tell Jack after Stephen to skip,
And tell the old Huntsman to come with his whip,
Then wait all together around the hall door.
O mercy, dear Sir! I your mercy implore.
You will not destroy me?
No, only correct,
And teach you a brave Soldier's Wife to respect.
Yet think, my dear Cousin, yet think, for my sake,
What a noise this ridiculous matter will make.
You know that my Felix's nature is such,
He don't wish his Wife to be talk'd of too much;
His honour and quiet let us make our care,
And bury in silence this foolish affair:
Perhaps, in my manners too easy and gay,
My levity led the young Poet astray.
No, no! my good Creature, you must not arraign
Your innocent self in a business so plain:
Besides, his offence by this plea cannot sink,
For they are the worst of all puppies that think
Each woman's a wanton who is not precise,
And that cheerfulness must be the herald of vice.
Howe'er this may be—as he's now all repentance,
I earnestly beg a repeal of your sentence.
Dear Ma'am I adore you for this intercession;
And I trust the good Knight will forgive my transgression.
Well, Sir, as beyond your desert you're befriended
By that virtue which you have so grossly offended,
You are free to depart; but remember, young Swain,
That you ne'er touch the Wife of a Soldier again.
If I do, may I die by the wind of a ball!
Heaven bless you, good Folks, and this sociable hall!
Since my amorous folly your friendship thus loses,
My amours shall henceforth be confin'd to the Muses.
Exit.
I thank you, dear Sir, and rejoice in my heart
That in safety you've suffer'd this Youth to depart.
By Jupiter, Coz, I had cool'd your warm Poet,
Had I not been afraid all our neighbours might know it,
And make you the subject of such conversation
As I think your nice Colonel would hear with vexation:
Then, since for your sake I have let the Bard go,
Come and aid me to settle all matters below:
That my anxious cares in her comfort may cease,
I'm resolv'd young Decisive shall marry my niece.
End of
ACT II.
ACT THE THIRD. SCENE I.
Enter
Mrs. Felix
and
Selina.
WELL, my dear, what d'ye think of our medical friend
Whom the letters of Felix so highly commend?
If my gratitude does not my judgment mislead,
He's the man in the world who with you might succeed:
Tho' gentle, yet manly, tho' bashful, polite.
Are you not half in love?—
Yes, indeed, at first sight!—
His service to you on my heart is engrav'd,
And I love him, I own, for the life he has sav'd,
To win me perhaps he might not find it hard,
So esteem'd as he is by the friends I regard;
But I fancy such thoughts will not enter his brain:
And for my part, instead of attracting a Swain,
I only shall think, as they heartily vex me,
Of escaping from those who already perplex me.
O make yourself easy, I pray, on that head;
In the deepest disgrace the poor Poet is fled,
And I trust that the Critic will soon share his fate.
Come with me—I've a most curious tale to relate.
Let us haste—I perceive that Decisive is near,
In whose present discourse I would not interfere.
Exeunt.
Enter
Decisive
and
Morley.
So while in the grove I was coolly projecting
New plans for the temple the Knight is erecting,
Our Poet, addicted to amorous sin,
Grew a little too fond of the Ladies within:
But discovery happen'd his passion to damp;
And this is the cause of his haste to decamp.
The old Knight, I believe, such resentment express'd
As quicken'd the speed of his fugitive guest;
On Terror's swift wing he is certainly flown,
And as he has retreated, the field is your own.
As a rival I had not much fear of poor Sapphic;
Bad rhyme's current coin in most amorous traffic,
But would not pass here.
I think not in your view,
As it finds such a critical touchstone in you.
The Poet's dismission your triumph ensures,
And the prize, my good friend, is now certainly yours;
A prize, that we justly may call very great,
A lovely sweet Girl with a noble estate.
The Girl's very well, but knows nothing of life;
It will cost me some pains to new model my Wife;
But I think she will gladly receive my correction,
And my wealthy old Kinsman approve the connection.
(
Coughs.
)
You've a cough, my good Friend,
Yes, a trifling one:
Hem!
Have you got any Indian prescription for phlegm?
Believe me, that cough is no trifling affair;
It calls, I assure you, for caution and care.
With regret I point out so unpleasant a truth,
But your constitution I've known from your youth;
Your hectic appearance I see with concern,
As I know, with your frame if health takes such a turn,
The least indiscretion your life may destroy.
The slightest excess in diversion and joy;
Even those tender cares, which on life's purest plan
Must belong to the state of a Family Man,
May lead to disease from which art cannot save,
And rapidly hurry you into the grave.
'Twere better this courtship of yours should miscarry,
For you'll certainly die in six months if you marry.
Are you serious, dear Doctor?
By such a sad end
I lately have lost a poor good-humour'd friend.
You remember Jack Dangle at College, no doubt;
He was just of your age, and a little more stout;
He, with other young sages, left Westminster Hall
To teach English law to the slaves of Bengal.
But Jack, in his new chamber-practice at least,
Too eagerly follow'd the rules of the East.
A bad cough ensu'd, much like yours in its found—
(Decisive
coughs.)
Good God! I could swear 'twas poor Jack under ground,
'Tis his tone so exactly, sepulchral and hollow!
The system he slighted I hope you will follow.
With pains in his breast he was sharply tormented;
But as he at first to my guidance consented,
Some time my strict regimen kept him alive,
Poor Dangle once more was beginning to thrive;
And had he some months in my plan persever'd,
On the earth at this moment he might have appear'd;
But chance threw a pretty white girl in his way,
And eager for marriage, fond Jack would not stay:
In vain I conjur'd him to wait half a year,
And shew'd him the danger he ran very clear.
He thought the remains of his cough but a trifle,
And being unable his passion to stifle,
He took his fair wife;—but, alas! the vile cough
Encreas'd every day till it carried him off!
I don't recollect any pain in my breast,
But I feel a strange tightness just now in my chest.
How's your stomach?
I've nothing to fear on that score.
Do you eat as you did?
Yes, I think rather more.
That ravenous hunger's the thing that I dread.
How d'ye sleep?
All the time that I pass in my bed.
Indeed!—I don't like so lethargic a slumber.
Why! my Friend! of good symptoms these rank in the number.
Alas! you may call them all good if you please,
By that title you only confirm your disease,
In which, tho' the patient declines very fast,
He for ever will flatter himself to the last.
Believe me, your symptoms are rather alarming,
Yet your present disorder there is not much harm in.
If you can but abstain, with a spirit resign'd,
From all that may harrass your body or mind,
To a different climate I wish you'd repair,
And for one Winter breathe a less changeable air.
Spend a Christmas at Naples, and when you return
You may marry without any anxious concern.
But you're now at that critical period of life
When, in such frames as yours, nature feels an odd strife,
And, if quiet does not all her functions befriend,
The short earthly scene on a sudden will end.
On a point so important you'll pardon my freedom.
Your cautions oblige me, I feel that I need 'em,
For in truth I am growing as thin as a rabbit,
And there's something consumptive I know in my habit.
My father died soon after taking a Wife,
And cough'd out his soul when I jump'd into life:
I suppose I am going.
Take courage, my Friend;
On your own prudent conduct your life will depend.
If you take but due care for two years, I'll engage
You will stand a fair chance for a healthy old age.
Nor would I advise you this Girl to refuse,
A distant attachment your mind will amuse;
And, no doubt, for a man of your fortune and figure
She will wait till your health has recover'd its vigour.
I can part with the Girl without feeling a chasm
In my heart; that will shake with no amorous spasm;
For, to tell you the truth, my old rich Uncle Cob
Is more eager than I for this marrying job.
By this scheme the old Blade is supremely delighted,
Because two large manors may thus be united:
But when of his park I've extended the bound,
It will do me small good if I sink under ground;
And I'm not such a fool in these projects of pelf,
To humour my friends and endanger myself.
Indeed I'd not wed for an old Uncle's whim;
But here comes our Knight, I shall leave you with him,
As I think you've some delicate points to adjust.
Exit.
alone.
I'm in no haste to sleep with my Ancestor's dust.
'Tis wiser my weak constitution to save,
Than to marry, and so travel post to the grave.
Enter
Sir Nicholas.
Come, give me your hand, and rejoice, my young Neighbour,
You're the man that's to order the pipe and the tabor;
And by Jove we'll all dance on so joyous a day;
Your wedding, dear Dick, shall be speedy and gay;
For your Rival is gone with our serious displeasure,
And I give to your wishes my young lovely Treasure.—
A treasure she is, tho' the Girl is my Niece;
Heaven grant ye long years of affection and peace!
And a fine chopping Boy ere the end of the first—
Remember that I am to see the rogue nurs'd.
Go, you happy young dog, go and seal with a kiss,
And teach the old hall to re-echo your bliss.
As I know on this match what Sir Jacob intends,
And we can so well trust each other as friends,
Short contracts will answer as well as the best,
Our lawyers at leisure may finish the rest.
I know all suspence in such cases is hard,
And you shall not, I swear, from your bliss be debar'd,
While o'er acres of parchment they're crawling like snails.
Dear Sir, upon weighing in Reason's just scales
Your very great favours and my weak pretension,
I find I'm unworthy of such condescension,
And must, with regret, the high honour resign,
Which I once vainly thought might with justice be mine.
Hey-day! what does all this formality mean?
Why Dick! has the Devil possess'd you with spleen?
Or has Love made your mind thus with diffidence sore?
False modesty ne'er was your foible before.
You think you're unworthy!—the thought is so new,
That I hardly can tell what to say or to do.
If you love the good Girl full as much as you said,
I think you have very just claims to her bed;
But if your mind's chang'd, and you feel your love lighter,
'Tis better to say so, than marry and slight her:
And if this be the
▪ Sir, you have your release;
For although I am eager to marry my Niece,
Tho' I'm partial to you, yet I beg you to note,
That I don't want to cram her down any man's thtoat.
I'm truly convinc'd of the Lady's perfection,
And 'twould plea
e, d
ar Sir, to preserve the connection,
Tho' now, by particular reasons, am led
To revisit the Continent once ere I wed.
In the time of my absence I can't be exact;
But in what form you please I will freely contract,
In the course of two years to receive as my Wife—
Do you mean to insult me, you Puppy? Od's-life!
Ere I'd tie my dear Girl to so silly a Fop
For life, I'd condemn her to trundle a mop.
And let me advise you, young man, for the future,
To know your own mind ere you go as a suitor.
I perceive, Sir, my presence grows irksome to you,
And you'll therefore allow me to bid you adieu.
Your departure, indeed, I don't wish to restrain,
And have little concern when I see you again.
Exit
Decisive.
alone.
What can make this pert Puppy recede from his suit?
My fair Cousin and he have scarce had a dispute;
She would hardly affront him on purpose to vex me!—
Here she comes to explain all the points that perplex me.
Enter
Mrs. Felix.
Well, Cousin, my scheme for a wedding's suspended,
The Beaux are both gone, and their courtship is ended;
With an air so mysterious Decisive withdraws,
I a little suspect you're concern'd as the cause:
Confess, have you had any words with this Youth?
Not I, my dear Sir, on my honour and truth.
But I'm ready to own that the news you impart,
With surprize and with pleasure enlivens my heart.
I think your sweet Niece has a lucky escape:
I would almost as soon see her marry an ape
As her union with one of these Coxcombs behold;
The Bard is too warm, and the Critic too cold.
I find that they are not such Lads as I thought 'em;
The World all the worst of its fashions has taught 'em:
And the World is indeed at a very fine pass,
When such Puppies insult so attractive a Lass.
Young Fellows of fortune now think it hard duty
To pay a chaste homage to Virtue and Beauty.
But I'll leave these pert Fops to their own vile caprice,
And soon find a much fitter match for my Niece.
Other orders of men for a husband I'll search,
And I think I can settle my Girl in the Church.
Lord, Cousin! I thought you detested the Cloth!
Our Rector I own often kindles my wrath;
But all Parsons are not like my neighbour, old Squabble,
Who has learnt from his geese both to hiss and to gobble,
We have in our neighbourhood three young Divines,
And each, I believe, to Selina inclines.
Our Bishop's smart Nephew deserves a sweet Wench,
He himself in due time may be rais'd to the Bench;
With him I should like very well to unite her:
And if he hereafter should rise to the Mitre,
Then perhaps we together might bring to perfection
A much-wanted plan for the Church's correction.
A very fine scheme which you'll manage, no doubt!
More wonderful things I have known brought about;
And tho' my first plan, as you see, has miscarried,
I'm resolv'd that my Niece shall be speedily married.
I'll unite the good Girl to a Priest, if I'm able;
For the young Olive Branch never fails at his table.
There is one I prefer—but to leave the Girl free,
I allow her to make a fair choice of the Three:
I shall therefore invite the whole groupe to the hall,
And I'll now go and make her write cards to them all.
Exit.
alone.
What a wonderful creature is this worthy Knight!
To make others happy is all his delight!
Yet, misled by some wild philanthropic illusion,
He's for ever involv'd in odd scenes of confusion.
'Tis well that our Critic has made his last bow,
I rejoice he's remov'd, and I long to know how.
Enter
Morley.
Thank my stars, my dear Ma'am, I've dispatch'd your commission;
Your sweet Friend is, I hope, in a tranquil condition:
From her two irksome Lovers she now is reliev'd.
And I'm dying to know how all this was atchiev'd.
Come tell me, good Creature, how could you effect it?
By a project so simple you'd never suspect it:
I have banish'd both Swains, by declaring a Wife
Would rob one of glory, and t'other of life.
I persuaded the Bard his poetical fame
Could never exist with a conjugal flame:
Hence he grew with your charms so licentiously free,
But forgive me this ill which I could not foresee.
Decisive, more wisely, abandons the Fair
To make his own lungs his particular care.
What! on such points as these have they taken your word?
Dear Madam! mankind credit things most absurd,
When they come from the mouth of a medical man;
Hence Mountebanks never want skill to trepan.
The extent of our empire indeed there's no seeing,
When we act on the fears of a true selfish being.
How simple soever the means you've employ'd,
You have remedy'd ills by which we were annoy'd.
Having thus clear'd the scene from each troublesome Lover,
Can you not for the Nymph a fit Husband discover?
You see how she's prest by her Uncle to wed,
Who ne'er quits a scheme he once takes in his head.—
Suppose her kind fancy should lean towards you,
Is your heart quite as free as I'm sure 'twould be true?
Is it not pre-engag'd?
As in mirth's sportive sally
It pleases you thus a poor pilgrim to rally,
Your good nature I know will forgive me if I
To your pleasantry make a too serious reply.
'Tis my maxim to speak, whatsoe'er be the theme,
With a heart undisguis'd to the friends I esteem:
Had I all India's wealth, 'twould be my inclination
To offer it all to your lovely Relation.
But supposing it possible you could be willing
To unite her with one who is scarce worth a shilling;
Believe me, dear Madam, my pride is too great
To wish her to stoop to my humble estate.
Such pride, tho' it rests upon no strong foundation,
Is noble, I own, and deserves admiration.
I call it ill-founded, because, in my mind,
If there's fortune enough for a couple when join'd,
If talents and worth are by each duly shar'd,
If in all other points they are equally pair'd,
And mutual regard mutual merit enhances,
It signifies not which supply'd their finances.
Your pardon—how often when fortune's unequal,
Gay weddings produce a most turbulent sequel?
But could I once hope your sweet Cousin to gain,
How many things are there such hopes to restrain?
Suppose your dear Colonel, my most noble Friend,
Whom success to your arms may more speedily send!
Suppose, having clos'd the bright work he has plann'd,
His return from the East he should hasten by land;
Suppose him arriv'd, with what face could I meet
The man whom my heart should exultingly greet,
If he found me attempting, in spite of my station,
To wed, tho' a beggar, your wealthy Relation?
From these words my dear Friend, which I almost adore,
And a few slighter hints that escap'd you before,
I have caught a quick hope, which is fraught with delight,
That I soon shall be blest with my Felix's sight:
I begin to suspect he's in England already;
I perceive that you can't keep your countenance steady,
With his usual attention his love has reflected
How my poor foolish nerves by surprise are affected;
And lest they should fail me beyond all revival,
Has sent you to prepare for his wish'd-for arrival.
Am I right in my guess? Is he not very near?
Could I trust my own heart, I should think Felix here,
entering.
Sweet Foreboder, behold him restor'd to your arms.
O my Felix! this transport o'erpays all alarms,
Thus to see thee restor'd, and ennobled with fame!
In what words shall affection thy welcome proclaim?
My love! my blest Treasure! than glory more dear!
The bliss of this meeting, which shines in thy tear,
That we owe to this Friend let us never forget.
My share in your transport o'erpays all the debt.—
But, Colonel, your fondness has travell'd full speed,
And has not allow'd me the time you agreed.
I meant not, indeed, to have join'd you to-d
y,
But I found Love forbade my intended delay.
Well, my duty is done, now you happily meet;
Heaven bless you together!—
Stay, stay, I entreat;
You must not go yet; and before you depart,
I will open to Felix the scheme of my heart.
(
behind the scene.
)
Indeed, Sir, I never can write such a card.
(behind the scene.
)
Then you'll forfeit at once my paternal regard!
Hey-day! in the house I much fear something's wrong,
As Sir Nicholas talks in a language so strong.
Does he know you are here?
No, my Dear, I think not,
Unless he the tidings from Jenny has got;
She alone saw me come, and without much ado
Most kindly directed me where to find you.
They are coming this way—let's withdraw all together,
And contrive how to turn this loud storm to fair weather.
Exeunt.
Enter
Sir Nicholas
and
Selina.
I insist on your writing such cards to 'em all!
Dear Uncle, I beg you'll this order recall.
You know your commands I much wish to obey;
But reflect on this matter what people will say:
You're so eager to marry your Niece, they will swear,
That you hawk her about just like goods at a fair.
Well, my Dear, let 'em say so, and I'll say so too,
For your simile proves what a Guardian should do.
He who wants to dispose of a tender young maid,
May take a good hint from the gingerbread trade:
If he has any sense, 'twill be ever his plan
To part with soft pastry as soon as he can;
For, egad, an old maid is like old harden'd paste,
You may cry it about, but nobody will taste.
Come, do as I bid you, and take up your pen.
Lord, Sir! it will seem very odd to these men;
You will make me appear in a horrible light;
I vow my hand shakes so, I never can write.
Excuse me, dear Sir, from this business, pray do,
And let me live single for ever with you.
All business where woman's concern'd, I believe,
Must partake of the curse from our Grandmother Eve.
All her Daughters the steps of their Parent have follow'd,
Contradiction, the core of the apple she swallow'd,
In their veins still fermenting new ills can produce,
And all their blood seems Coloquintida juice.—
You froward cross Baggage! your word should I take,
And bid you live single five years for my sake,
Of the barbarous Uncle you'd quickly complain,
Who from Nature's just right a young Girl wou'd restrain!
Indeed, Sir, I should not.
I tell you you wou'd.
From perverseness alone you oppose your own good.
'Tis only to thwart me, because I desire
To see you well settled before I expire,
That you now with your soft hypocritical carriage,
Affect to have no inclination to marriage.
But you'll never contrive, tho' your tongue may be nimble,
To convince me your heart is as cold as your thimble.
I know of what stuff froward damsels are made,
The Guardian must force you who cannot persuade.
That you'll like a good husband, I never can doubt;
And married you shall be before the month's out,
Or at least your kind Uncle no more you shall teaze,
But may e'en go to Rome and turn Nun if you please.
(
aside.
)
I have lost all the love he has shewn me for years;
If I strive to reply I shall burst into tears.
Come, answer me, Miss! will you scribble or not?
Enter the
Colonel, Mrs. Felix
and
Morley.
My worthy old Friend, what can make you so hot?
Ha, Colonel!—you find me a little concern'd—
But I'm heartily glad you are safely return'd.
Your arrival indeed is a welcome surprize,
Tho' before you your fame a bright harbinger flies;
We have heard your success, and we all triumph in it.
I trust I am come in a fortunate minute
To make all your present embarrassment cease,
For I bring a young Husband, my Friend, for your Niece.
Egad that's well said; and I'm sure it's well meant;
And if he's like you he shall have my consent.
He has many more virtues, and just as much wealth,
And from India brings home both his morals and health.
Here, my Friend, is the Man.—As I owe him my life,
I wish to present him so lovely a Wife;
Half my fortune is his—here I freely declare it,
And have only to hope that Selina may share it.
I've regarded her long as a child of my own;
Nor can my affection more truly be shown,
Than by wishing to place the dear Girl in the arms
Of the friend whose rare virtues are worthy her charms.
Dear generous Felix, I'm quite overcome,
Thy Bounty is such, it strikes Gratitude dumb!
This was ever, my Friend, my most settled intention,
Though my very just purpose I chose not to mention,
From the hope I should find, what I gladly embrace,
A moment from which it may borrow some grace,
When my gift its plain value may rise far above,
By the aid it affords to the wishes of Love;
And I own, as a prophet, I'm proud of my art,
Now I see the effects of her charms on your heart.
O Felix! can I thus deprive thy free spirit
Of wealth, the reward of heroical merit?
Can I the victorious Commander despoil
Of what he has purchas'd with danger and toil▪
Should love and delight on thy present attend,
I could never be happy in robbing a Friend.
No, I still must decline—
My dear Boy, say no more;
You're the match that I never could meet with before.
I have long sought in vain for an heir to my mind,
But all my soul wish'd, in your spirit I find.
You shall
not
rob your Friend of a single
An Indian Coin.
Gold Mohr,
He can raise heirs enough to inherit his store:
To such men as himself let him haste to give birth,
And with twenty young Felixs garnish the earth.
How trifling soever your fortune may be,
From the Colonel's esteem, and the virtues I see,
I think you as noble a match for my Niece,
As I could, had you brought home a new golden fleece:
I have money enough, if you're rich in affection.—
As I always have talk'd of an equal connection,
My neighbours, perhaps, may suppose my sight dim,
Or mock my wise choice as a generous whim:
Let them study with zeal, which I hope may succeed,
Of their horses and dogs to improve the best breed;
A study more noble engrosses my mind,
To preserve the first points in the breed of mankind:
On the heart and the soul, as the first points, I dwell,
In these, my dear Children, you match mighty well,
And I think human nature in debt to my care,
For uniting two mortals who happily pair.
Your hand, my dear Knight, it is gloriously said!
By Juno we'll put the young couple to bed!
We'll have no dull delays.—
Now what say you, my Dear,
Are these orders for marriage too quick and severe?
My amazement and gratitude both are extreme,
But my voice seems opprest in a heavenly dream:
Though your kindness is greater than language can paint,
I beg this fair hand may be free from constraint.
From constraint!—Gad, if now she affects to demur,
I can tell her, my wrath she shall so far incur,
She shall go to a convent for life, or at least
Be sent as a venture herself to the East.
My Uncle I long have obey'd, and at present
I cannot complain his commands are unpleasant;
Nay more; could he place all mankind in my view,
And bid me chuse from them, my choice would be you.
To this dear declaration my life must reply,
All words are too weak—
The whole earth I defy,
To shew me a scene more delightful than this;
Dear honest frank Girl, come and give me a kiss;
Thou'rt the creature of Nature much more than of Art,
And I own thee again as the child of my heart.
entering and speaking to the
Colonel.
There are two chests for you, Sir, just come to the hall.
A few Indian things for the Ladies—that's all.
Pray, Jonathan, pay those who brought them with this.
Giving money.
My brave lad must share in our general bliss.
Here, Jonathan, if you're to marriage inclin'd,
And can luckily meet with a girl to your mind,
You may marry and settle as soon as you please;
The Colonel has taken good care of your ease.
God bless him, whate'er he is pleas'd to bestow!
I think I have found a kind sweetheart below.
He has made choice of Jenny;—and I will provide
A fortune, my Friend, for your good-humour'd Bride.
Egad, they shall have my new farm on the hill,
And raise young recruits there as fast as they will.
Heaven prosper you all! I will pray for you ever,
And to serve my King still, as I can, I'll endeavour.
Exit.
Well said, honest Soldier; we'll have no delay,
Go and tell the old Parson to keep in the way.
Come with me, fair Cousin, examine my chests;
I long to present you a few bridal vests.
to
Morley.
As we view with delight the events of to-day,
A fair lesson, my Friend, in your fate we survey;
While, from love to an aged fond parent, with speed,
From wealth's open road you most kindly recede,
Heaven sends you that fortune you nobly have slighted,
And your warm filial piety here is requited;
This bright moral truth by your lot is exprest,
"They who seek others' bliss are by Providence blest."
to
Morley.
Here, my worthy young Friend, take and cherish this Fair,
And, trust me, you'll find her deserving your care;
For although of her sex she may have a small spice,
She'll please you ten times where she vexes you twice;
And happy the man, in this skirmishing life,
Who is able to say half as much of his Wife.